


The Helsinki Connection

by sewn



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1970s, Cold War, Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe, Finland (Country), Gen, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 21:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15324969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/pseuds/sewn
Summary: 1975, July.A small European city prepares to host world leaders for a historical summit.Steve Rogers, an ex-superhero, now a secret operative, is sent as part of the US team to attend the occasion. Still trying to find his way in the future, he soon discovers that the past has a bad habit of catching up to you...[Or: A ridiculously self-indulgent, not very serious 1970s espionage AU, in which Steve was found in the ice after thirty years and SHIELD is an entirely secret, rickety organization performing questionable operations sub rosa.Stucky-centric; the other pairings are incidental.]





	1. Summer Vacation

”I can't believe they dragged us here for this. Might as well be going behind the Iron Curtain,” Rumlow said.

”We’re not talking about a satellite state here,” Romanoff said archly. ”Believe me, there’s a difference.”

Rumlow just flashed a sharp smile across the table.

The tiny room they had been directed to twenty minutes earlier was stiflingly hot despite the rattling air condition working overtime, and Steve could see beads of sweat forming at Rumlow's hairline. His own body didn’t sweat yet, but all it meant was that he felt even hotter. The heat wave that had settled on D.C. showed no signs of budging, and Steve wished he could have been anywhere else than a dusty conference room in the depths of a subgovernmental building. He picked up a pen from the table, half-unconsciously, and started fiddling with it. Small distractions like that helped his brain ignore physical discomfort.

”Whatever. No cable tv, no McDonald’s. Sounds a lot like comradery to me, if you know what I mean.” Rumlow glanced at Steve. ”You should feel right at home, old man.”

Steve was about to make a half-assed retort to Rumlow’s words but Director Fury chose the moment to stride into the room. He got up.

”Gentlemen. Lady,” Fury inclined his head minutely towards Romanoff, who smiled with one corner of her mouth. She wasn’t wearing her usual, alarmingly red lipstick today. Steve thought of her as out of the uniform when he saw her like that. It wasn’t often.

Fury took his seat at the head of the table. ”Please, be seated.”

The Director of Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division was a tall man, as if to match his title, and imposing even when he was sat down. They had all been summoned to conference with him on short notice.

Steve had received a succinct pre-briefing on the subject matter, couched in the language of standard governmental discretion. What caught his attention was that he had apparently been invited to join the President of the United States as he traveled to Finland for what was called the Conference on Security and Co-operation in Europe. An addendum, subtly worded, let him know he was to meet Nicholas Fury from State Department’s Bureau of European and Eurasian Affairs before the official meeting with his usual Army liaison.

Steve had wondered why he had been asked to participate in what appeared to be a peace summit of all things; even without the shield and the cowl, he was still the poster boy for the US military efforts, which ever since he came out of ice after three decades of sleep had meant he’d become a living target for anti-war sentiment. It wasn’t exactly inspiring to see burning effigies of Captain America on campus lawns, but it made for a good cover.

If SHIELD was involved, Steve would obviously be expected to serve as a dark operative – or a distraction. For his professional ego’s sake he hoped it was the former, but it probably was the latter.

”As you’ve probably guessed, you three are not here as civilians or soldiers.” Fury let his gaze travel from face to face. The eyepatch meant he did this slowly and to an unnerving effect.

“As your preliminary briefing hopefully informed you, in a few days you are going to be whisked off to Europe to ensure that the President reads his speech out nice and loud and signs his name right alongside Brezhnev at the end of a document longer than my weekly agenda.”

Fury shook his head minutely and looked mildly irritated. The heat seemed to be getting to him as well.

“State has been on my ass about interfering with their process as little as possible. Apparently Mr Secretary has required a great deal of convincing and they are, and I quote, up to their necks in shit already. Because I am a reasonable man, you three are expected to play nice and attend every damn meeting and dinner you get invited to.”

Fury opened his briefcase and took out a holder of slides which he popped into the projector attached to the table. The projector whirred to life. It sounded as tired as the air conditioning. 

“Meanwhile, your real mission is with us.”

Fury fiddled with the lens until SHIELD’s logo with its eagle with wings outstretched emerged out of the blur.

”Our target –” Fury pushed a button and the next image slid out, ”– is this man, Anatoly Sokolov. According to our intelligence, he will be traveling with the General Secretary’s little dance troupe. His visa says he's a medical doctor, which is incidentally not untrue, but we have every reason to believe he is an undercover operative working for HYDRA.”

Steve dropped his pen.

”HYDRA, sir –?”

Fury shot him a look.

”Yes. We have been keeping track of all the known ex-HYDRA operatives around the world for the last thirty years.”

On any of his previous missions, Steve had never officially seen or heard the name of the organization he thought he had helped bring down during the war. He knew that people involved in HYDRA’s plans were still around, had even went on missions where it was clear where these people had learnt their tricks, but SHIELD never used the title in their communication.

It was as though they tried to make people forget someone like Red Skull ever existed, or downplay the importance of what he started. It had started to work on Steve, at least. Some days he felt like his memories of the war were slowly turning into fog, like it was all a long, dark dream. A desired effect of his serum-enhanced brain to let him focus on the present and the future, he knew, but disconcerting nonetheless.

“It is our belief,” Fury continued, as Steve made no attempt to question him, “that even though the majority of these people have laid low since the war and not attempted direct contact with each other, there is a network of sorts forming. Our intelligence has intercepted enough data over the last few years to make a sophisticated guess as to what this network’s long-term goal is.”

“Reinstatement of HYDRA?” Rumlow spoke, with some incredulity in his voice.

Rumlow had never seemed too keen on history lessons, but now that Fury had said it out loud, Steve felt suddenly electrified. His brain immediately started to arrange his short-term memories according to a new framework. The last few jobs they’d done – most in Southern America – they’d been tracking down scientists, seemingly harmless but told to harbor plans of biological warfare. SHIELD always gave out as little information as possible, but it would only make sense that those men had been HYDRA as well. Steve’s mind supplied him with a memory of a shack in the Argentinian countryside, and he grit his teeth.

“Yes,” Fury replied to Rumlow’s question, rhetorical as it was. “The next step is to make an even better guess at what their short-term plans are. This is where you come in.”

“All the data points to Sokolov being tasked with carrying a cartridge of sensitive documents with him. The exact nature of these documents is not clear, but we expect him to deliver them to a contact of his while in Helsinki.”

“Why there?” Romanoff asked. “Wouldn’t Vienna or Budapest make more sense?” She didn’t look at Steve. She must have known about HYDRA’s liveliness before this meeting.

“HYDRA already suspects we know about their contacts over there. They wouldn’t risk a high priority package going through where it’s possible we get our hands on it. It was recently, and fortuitously, that we found out about the connection in Helsinki.”

The next image slid out.

“Plain and simple, your job is to follow the man, make a copy of this, –” he nodded at the image of a data cartridge, a sleek modern type, “– and get the hell out before he notices someone’s been going through his sock drawer.”

“A copy?” Rumlow piped up. “Why not just snatch the thing and off the Russki?”

Fury didn’t do long-suffering sighs, but he breathed slowly before answering.

“HYDRA will never know we were there. We need Sokolov to make the delivery so we can follow the thread. The longer they think they’ve got a secure point of contact between East and West, the better.”

“I have a why as well,” Steve said. “Why us?” What he meant was _why me_. He wasn’t exactly low-profile if he was going to travel visibly as part of the President’s delegation. Fury would have undoubtedly picked up on what he meant, but chose to ignore that part.

“We have currently no local dark operatives in the area. Our continental agents are all more or less known to what we are calling the Red Hydra, and while still mostly useful for counterintelligence, they cannot be used for this mission. We need people without previous connection to the location, with a plausible cover story for being there.”

“What about her?” Rumlow flung at Romanoff’s direction. She looked at him but her face remained impassive.

“Agent Romanoff is known to the Soviets as a defector, now on the payroll of Stark Industries. There’s no reason to associate her with more than industrial espionage. In fact, that is rather desirable.”

Romanoff stared Rumlow in the eye.

“If you’re asking whether I ever worked for HYDRA, the answer is no.” The corner of her mouth curved upward. “Just the KGB.”

“As it is,” Fury continued, “We need Ms Romanoff’s set of skills for this mission. She’ll join the party ostensibly as a security operative thinly disguised as State Department personnel. Rumlow, you’ll be part of the grunt team. And Rogers –” Fury looked at Steve, “you’ll work the floor.”

So he was going as a distraction.

“Wouldn’t HYDRA immediately think of the time their boss got barbecued when they see his pretty face?” Rumlow rolled his eyes at Steve’s general direction.

“Yes,” Steve said himself, used to his occasional teammate’s barbs and choosing to ignore him. Rumlow was an asshole on a good day. “But they don’t know I’m with SHIELD. All they’ll know is that I’ll be there as a political tool.” He shot Fury a look. ”I assume HYDRA has possible intelligence on me as a civilian Army consultant, at most?”

Steve’s current job description was somewhat complicated. Honorably discharged, on paper he worked for the government now. In practice, he had found himself recruited by SHIELD. He hadn’t pursued covert operations, they just seemed to find him. It was a living, but the paperwork was a nightmare.

All things considered, it wasn’t a question of whether Steve could go undercover. If anything, as dull as the gleam of his shield was these days, donning the face of Captain America was still a useful way to get behind closed doors. The question was why would a bureaucratic delegation include someone representing the US Army, even if Steve didn’t actually work for them anymore.

“That’s exactly why,” Fury replied to his voiced query. “The State Department is in pains to do some damage control in Europe. I daresay some are more concerned with the public image of our country more than getting all the papers signed. This summit is the perfect forum to demonstrate our willingness to military concessions.” Whether it meant making any, or not, of course. “You’ll be going not as Army, but ex-Army. Think of yourself as a… cultural attaché.”

Romanoff seemed to catch herself before making a face, but the corner of her mouth curled upward again. ”That’s a new one,” she said.

Fury shrugged.

”That’s what they’re asking for over there. I almost didn’t believe my luck either. Originally, I thought of leaving you two to your own devices.”

Steve knew Fury left nothing in his life to luck. He was sure there had been a lot of carefully worded interagency communication between SHIELD and the CIA involved. The former never dealt with the government directly.

”Alright then, you have your orders. Details are in your files.” Fury shut off the projector and took three folders out of his briefcase, handing them to Romanoff, who passed them on. ”I expect your respective future employers will be in contact shortly and bring you up to date on your cover missions. Remember that this meeting never took place, and keep me posted through the usual channels. Gentlemen.” He got up and Steve and Rumlow did the same. ”Lady,” he said to Natasha, who seemed more amused than anything by the situation. ”I’ll leave you Three Stooges to it.” A rare reference that Steve understood.

Fury strode out of the room as briskly as he had come in. Steve caught a glimpse of him pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead.

He flipped his file open, and indicated Romanoff and Rumlow do the same. It was time to plan their summer vacation.


	2. Greetings, Earthlings

It was 9 pm before Steve got out of the last meeting of the day.

The Army had put him through the rote briefing process first. Usually, when receiving instructions for cover missions, the briefing was short and he wasn’t involved in the decision-making. There was a mutual understanding about responsibility between SHIELD and the various branches of the US armed forces, even when the shared information was limited.

This was an operation the Army took especially seriously, though, and an unique one at that. More importantly, this time the Army did not know he was pairing up with SHIELD on the side. It happened from time to time, but never before had Fury been so paranoid about the secrecy.

It had taken three hours to go through his schedule for the following week. The US Army could be efficient if it wanted, but also excruciatingly detailed if needed.

“We apologize for the short notice, sir,” a harried Sergeant had greeted him with. “As it stands, the planning process is still ongoing and we have yet to secure civilian assistance.” This meant someone from the field of public relations.

In short, the Army wanted him to act as the face of their new, softer approach to the media and the public, international relations included. Paradoxically, this meant highlighting the fact that he was not an officer anymore, but a paragon of transferring from service to civilian life.

“We need to be emphatic that lateral career movement is the future,” one presenter said. Or as another one put it, “You’ll go out there, kiss some babies, and make sure the pinkos walk away with their panties wet.”

It all felt rather familiar.

As Steve was checking out of the building at the end of the day, the desk clerk handed him a note.

”There was a call for you two hours ago, Captain. From Stark Industries.”

Steve had given up correcting junior personnel who automatically addressed him by his former rank. He took the note, which would be from Romanoff. She usually presented herself as an SI employee, which she still technically was. She had requested a meeting at one of their usual rendez-vous points.

Steve thanked the clerk, signed out, got on his motorcycle and headed home.

He found Romanoff lounging on his sofa. She’d put on a record and was barefoot.

”Did you take a shower?” Steve asked. There were small wet footsteps on the floor.

”My building’s pipes are busted. Inconvenient in this weather and all.” Romanoff sat up and smiled. ”Your soap smells nice. I know now why all the girls go crazy about you.”

Steve just shook his head at her. He wasn’t quite sure what their relationship had developed into since they’d started working together a little over a year ago. She was aggressively flirty with him, but then, she was like that with everyone. And she must have picked up on his disinterest a long ago. They were colleagues, but in their line of work, the borders tended to blur between private and work life. Tentative friends, perhaps? He’d have to ask one day.

”I hope you didn’t use up all the warm water.” Steve needed a shower badly himself, and headed for the bathroom. ”I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but I’m afraid to see what you’d do.”

Romanoff just flopped back on the sofa, toes tapping to the rhythm of the song. Steve could hear her sing along to “Sugar & Spice” over the sound of the water.

”Did you call Rumlow?” Steve asked when he emerged from his small bathroom, pulling on a T shirt. It immediately clung to his skin. It would have been nice to be able to be alone for a while.

”I did.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. ”He should be here any minute now.”

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door.

Rumlow pushed past Steve without a hello, brushing against him briefly. Steve could smell his cologne, barely masking the masculine scent of sweat and hints of old leather and tobacco.

”Thanks for the invite, Widow,” he greeted Romanoff. He looked between the two of them. ”I see I missed all the fun.”

Steve was about to protest but Romanoff got in first.

”You were taking your sweet time, Crossbones.” She smiled as she sat up again and reached to lift the arm off the turntable. ”Better luck next time.”

Steve fought to keep down his flush. It was fortunate he was fresh out of the shower. Once again, he wasn’t sure how to interpret the teasing note in her voice. She could just be yanking Rumlow’s chain as usual, or, what was both terrifying and very possible, she knew about their occasional trysts. Not that there had been any lately.

If she knew, that was potentially damaging information. Steve didn’t think she was threatening them, but then, it was sometimes hard to tell. And if she knew, well, there was no use crying over spilled milk, as it were.

”Blame him.” Rumlow looked at Steve. “I can’t believe you live all the way up here. You sure you can’t afford something downtown? Do you live off your pension or something?”

Rumlow grumbled every time he had to cross the state line, which was a funny quality in someone who traveled the globe for their work.

“Let’s see what you got for us, then.” Rumlow took his seat on Steve’s sofa next to Romanoff comfortably. She beckoned Steve over and soon they were hunched together like little kids over Christmas presents.

Romanoff opened the bag she had brought over and pulled out a thin, rectangular device. It looked like a small, entirely flat screen of a television unit, only without the television itself. Besides the dark screen, it was cased in plastic and had buttons on one side. It looked like a prop from a science fiction show.

”Stark sends his regards, boys.” She handed the device to Steve.

”What is this? Some sort of a… miniature computer?” Steve turned the thing over. It was surprisingly light, like a book. He knew Stark was working on faster computing.

”From what I’ve seen, it’s what you’d call a videophone. You ever seen _2001_? Tony calls it a ’tablet.’ You push the button –” Romanoff reached over and took the thing out of his hands, ”– here.”

The device blinked a green light and the screen came alive with lines of text. Natasha pressed a few more buttons and the screen filled with colors.

”Greetings, Earthlings, I come in peace. And, er, bearing gifts – wait, Dum-E, no –”

A taped recording of Tony Stark had popped up, evidently made in his workshop. Stark seemed to be juggling his misbehaving robot, a lunch sandwich and a small welding iron at once. The recording blurred into static as he managed to let go of the sandwich to grab the robot, which was apparently trying to reach for the welding iron. Once his hands were empty, it scrolled out of the frame.

”Sorry about that.” Stark turned to face the camera. ”Dum-E hates it when I don’t concentrate on my lunch.”

Romanoff and Steve shared a look. Rumlow snorted.

”I’m sure Ms Romanoff has already filled you in on the basics –” she shrugged, ”– but here’s a little lesson for you.”

Stark picked up a smaller device from the table behind him, a regular tape recorder it seemed.

”Our mutual friend has recently consulted me on upgrading your little trio’s office hardware. Apparently, your Xerox machine broke down.”

He held out the recorder. It looked remarkably unremarkable for a Stark invention.

”This is basically your regular two-deck tape recorder. That’s Magnetophon for you, Cap.” He popped the other deck open. ”Tape goes in, blah blah blah, tape goes out. What makes this one the absolute winner in the home market is the speed and the capacity. Whereas with the usual recorder, the scan takes however long the tape needs to run through, this baby here,” he gave it a kiss, ”performs the scan helically. That is to say, in the blink of an eye.”

Steve took his word for it; for all his personal friction with Stark, the man was an unquestionable genius, even with sandwich crumbs all over his shirt. The clarity of the picture really was something.

”But wait! There’s more. Not only is the copying process quick, it transforms this –” he pointed at the cartridge inside the deck, ”– into this.” The other deck held not a tape, but what appeared to be a little stick made of plastic and metal, smaller than Stark’s thumb. ”Now this part’s quite experimental, but I assure you, that only means your secrets will be safe even from yourself. I am the only one with compatible technology. Well, me and our ocularly challenged friend, from now on.”

”How long is this thing?” Rumlow muttered. He didn’t seem as engrossed in the presentation as Steve found himself to be. He realized he’d started to worry if Stark would remember to finish the sandwich afterwards. He had a tendency to forgo sleep and food when left alone too long.

”What’s that? Do I hear you ask, but what about that compatibility I just heard you mention? Worry not. This particular specimen is equipped to hold and scan whatever tape format the greatest living minds behind the Curtain have come up with. I can’t take all the credit for that myself, I’ll admit. Our friend has been most helpful in advancing technological exchange between East and West and provided me with the latest innovations.”

Hearing this strengthened Steve’s belief that part of Fury’s intelligence for the mission did come undiluted from the GRU or the KGB. Steve wondered, not for the first time since he’d learned about SHIELD, whether he should be comforted or alarmed by the possible collusion between various national agencies. Did the Russians knowingly fight HYDRA as well? And how much did the CIA know about it all? It wasn’t his problem to solve if Fury skirted the edges of law, but it would be a hell of a mess to clean, and one he – any of them in this room – wouldn’t be able to escape.

”Alright,” Stark said on the screen. ”I believe that’s all for now. If you need to contact me securely while abroad, Natasha, you’ll know what to do. Stark out.” He pointed dramatically at the screen and it flashed and turned black again.

”Neat, huh?” Natasha said. ”You can play it again as many times as you like. And what’s more –” she imitated Tony’s ad man-voice, making Steve smile, ”– it receives new video recordings via a satellite, one owned privately by Stark Industries.”

”So we’ll have the pleasure of more entertainment from Mr Stark if we get bored in our hotel rooms, huh?” Rumlow asked, with the slightest of smirks.

Even if Steve felt like he had again failed to gouge the level of Stark’s technological prowess, he was impressed by the results. Not relying on landlines and the usual military channels would make all the difference on a SHIELD-specific covert mission.

”How many of these things exist?”

”Not many, I think,” Romanoff said. ”According to Tony, he’s equipped Fury with a few. We can receive messages from him.”

”And what about recording?”

”Ah. There’s that. Apparently, audiovisual recording is expensive, so for budgetary reasons we are limited to voice messages only. But with this thing they’ll be securely delivered, and only accessible with another tablet.”

Natasha took more of Stark’s toys out of her bag. She looked uncharacteristically gleeful.

”Let’s try it out, shall we? We can sing Tony a thank you song.”

***

It was only after the two had left that Steve realized he had accidentally started calling Natasha by her first name. Besides Peggy, she was the only person alive he had done that with.


	3. Working for the Man

The call came at 5 am. Steve was already up and about to go for his morning run. When he picked up the receiver, he was informed that his departure for Helsinki had been rescheduled for today. He was expected at the airport at 0800.

Steve had expected to spend another day home after the previous day spent dealing with the State Department. Where the Army had been long-winded but clear and thorough, the politicians were characteristically mercurial and wildly disorganized. The foreign servants seemed to be doing their best to provide him with relevant information, but the Department was knee-deep in Middle Eastern affairs, and depending on a given office’s proximity to the issue, Steve encountered varying degrees of enthusiasm, mostly verging on indifference. He didn’t disagree with their priorities, and he couldn’t help but wonder whether they all could have saved time if they’d done this over the telephone.

He was granted a short meeting with the Secretary himself, which he might just as well have done without.

The Secretary of State never had liked him, for understandable political reasons. From a certain point of view, Steve’s heavily publicized resurrection had had unfortunate effects on the former president’s efforts in China, not to mention the issue of a then ongoing war. Never mind that Steve had had nothing to do with either, and even less with what went on in the White House behind closed doors.

As usual, he got the perfunctory handshake and a rapid-fire monologue.

”You know, I frankly don’t care what you’re doing out there. The Army’s campaign obviously has need for you and if European Affairs wants to take part in this little charade, fine, we’ll go along with them. For my money we’d be better off talking to the USSR one on one – hell, why am I even saying this, I won’t bore you with things you have no interest in, Captain. Now excuse me, I’ve got Assad on one line, Allon on the other and my wife on the third. See you in Helsinki.”

He exited the room before Steve had time to get up.

”Mr Secretary,” Steve said to the general direction of the closed door, and followed an apologetic aide out of the offices.

By the end of the day, he had mostly learned that he would get a temporary personal assistant whose job it was to take care of the details and make sure he shook hands with the right people.

Now, at 7:30, he found himself at Dulles, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. It wasn’t hot yet, but for some reason he felt his adrenaline spike up. It had actually been a while since he had done anything as a public figure, as he had spent the last couple of years on SHIELD missions, pretending to have left Captain America behind.

Adding to his discomfort was the fact that he hadn’t had time for sex before embarking on this journey.

Steve had planned to see someone the night before, as usual; by now he had settled on a routine, getting laid right before and after a mission. The change in schedule had interfered with his plans. He had also had to cut his morning run short. His skin itched and he felt like he was bursting with nervous energy.

Steve had thought of visiting a guy he had been seeing more or less regularly for the past few months. It was nothing serious – it never could be, not that Steve had the time or, frankly, the inclination – just a mutually beneficial arrangement.

The man was an unassuming accountant from the State Department. They had met at a horrible Christmas party where everyone but Steve got drunk off their asses and it was socially approved of to disappear into empty offices with newfound company. Afterwards, it was easy enough to keep in touch and make it seem like official business, even if the man wasn’t directly involved with most issues concerning Steve. He had been very helpful with his taxes, though.

Steve felt slightly bad about standing him up, as it were, and called his office to leave a note saying that he was leaving the country this morning and apologized for having to postpone their scheduled meeting.

He met up with Rumlow and Natasha quickly at a clandestine location – a bathroom – at the airport before parting for their respective trips. Rumlow was traveling as part of the Secret Service. Natasha would be on the same plane as Steve, but except for small talk, it wasn’t smart for them to directly communicate in public.

Rumlow’s presence did nothing to alleviate the hot and itchy feeling all over Steve’s body, which still treacherously associated the other man with sex. And he was sure Rumlow was riling him up on purpose.

”Remember to jerk off this morning, Rogers? They don’t allow porn over there.”

Steve had his back to the mirror but he was sure his face had turned scarlet. As it was, he had masturbated, two quick and frustrating orgasms in the shower before packing in haste.

”Sorry to hear that, Rumlow. You’ll be so lonely.”

The other man just chuckled, patting Steve on the shoulder. He swore he could feel every fingerprint.

”Alright, lovebirds. Gotta go. See you on the other side.”

He left Natasha and Steve to prepare for the flight. Natasha was carrying their gadgetry as she was positioned as the lowest-profile passenger of the three. He felt she was watching him more intently than usual.

”You alright, Steve?” she finally asked, when they had slipped out of the bathroom. A little hysterically, Steve thought of how scandalous it all looked and silently thanked god that there were no stewardesses passing by. They were not a minute too early as they soon saw genuine State Department personnel approaching through the glass doors.

”Yeah, why?” It had started to feel like she saw right through him more and more every day.

”Nothing, just – keep smiling. See you tonight.” Natasha touched his arm, an unusually soft gesture between them, before she walked away.

The doors slammed open and a host of over-heated political aides came through, complaining about the rescheduling. A few spared a glance at Steve’s direction. Steve heard Natasha introduce herself as CIA; her cover story had layers, as she was going to be masquerading as an aide to the Secretary.

”Um, Captain Rogers? Sir?”

Steve tore his eyes from Natasha’s back. A giddy-looking, bespectacled young woman was standing at his elbow, arms full of files and a heavy bag slung over her shoulder.

”Hi. Darcy Lewis. At your service. Uh, sir.” The topmost files were dangerously close to toppling over. ”I’d shake your hand, but, you know,” she inclined her head towards the pile, almost knocking them over.

”Let me help you with those,” Steve hurried to say and grabbed the files from her arms. ”And it’s Steve. I’m not a Captain anymore.”

”Oh, you don’t need to –” for a moment it looked like she was going to try to hold onto the files but in the end let Steve take them. ”Thanks, man. Steve. I totally had that under control but I appreciate the chivalry.”

”I assume you’re my new assistant?” Steve asked as he followed her towards their connecting flight.

”Oh! Yes. Probably should’ve lead with that. Yep.”

Somehow, Steve had a feeling she was not assigned by the military.

”Nope,” she said as they were settling down on the plane. ”I work for the Information Agency. It’s a whole new thing, I mean new for you. I believe you met the Deputy Director yesterday.” She managed to push her bag into the overhead locker. ”He’s the one with a cold. It’s been going around the office. Hope you didn’t catch – oh, yeah, of course not.” She sat down, smoothing wrinkles out of her plaid skirt.

”You’re a little different from my last handler,” Steve said drily.

”Yeah, well, we don’t really need to sell war bonds anymore. So you don’t have to worry about dance moves, in case you were wondering.”

Ms Lewis spent a little time explaining her work at what was essentially an agency for both domestic and foreign propaganda. In all honesty, it didn’t sound all that different from his experiences during wartime, Steve concluded, even if the packaging was new. A political science student with her background still seemed an unlikely candidate for a cog in the machine.

”Believe me, I didn’t think I’d end up working for the man either,” she whispered theatrically. ”But they’re a little low on willing applicants.”

Steve wasn’t in a very conversational mood, but it didn’t really matter as Ms Lewis was happy to chat for the both of them. The reason she had got the job, she reasoned out loud, was because her honors thesis had been Captain America-related. ”Or, more like, adjacent. I’m interested in World War Two news media. It was apparently not a very topical subject, lah-de-dah, but look at me now. I oughta thank you for the whole waking up thing.”

She looked bashful for a moment.

”Also, I told them I was half-Finnish. Which is almost true. I am like, one-eighth? My nana’s from Michigan. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, it’s not like anyone –” she rolled her eyes, ”– actually speaks that language.”

Despite her talkative nature, or perhaps because of it, Steve felt himself relax around Lewis. Most people her age still had very extreme reactions to meeting him in person if they recognized him. There were the few enthusiasts, but mostly he had to ready himself for criticism, or a fight if it was late at night. He’d had torn draft-cards thrown at his face, although not recently.

”Yeah, I’d be lying if I said you aren’t a tad controversial among the student population,” she said. ”But I’m totally cool with you, man. I’ve got your number. You’re just a guy. Regular-degular, super-serumed, Nazi-killing, inhumanely good-looking, in-coma-under-ice-for-decades kinda guy.” She smiled brightly at him. ”Right?”

***

Lewis fell asleep somewhere over the Atlantic. Steve wished he could have slept, too; he wasn’t tired and his body didn’t need more rest, so he couldn’t, but it would have killed some time. He busied himself with some of the files she had handed to him.

“You really don’t need to read all these, these are mostly timetables for the meetings –” she put aside a red file, “– and you don’t need to know when the Hungarians are meeting the Bulgarians. Let’s see, no, you don’t want to go through the numbers on Soviet grain purchases.” She handed him a green one. “Ooh, this one’s fun, it’s personal profiles of the attendants put together by the guys at Langley. Check out Helmut.”

For all the chaotic energy surrounding her, Lewis seemed to have a voracious appetite for new information and details, and she provided him with a few colorful anecdotes, one concerning the Secretary, before yawning widely. “Alright, knock yourself out, I’m gonna take a nap.”

She closed her eyes and seemingly fell asleep on the spot. It was probably another good quality for a secretary. _Assistant_ , Steve corrected himself. He took the rest of the papers carefully out of her hands.

 _Endowed on occasion with considerable personal dignity_ , Steve read. _Capable of extraordinary frankness, and in his own eyes no doubt unusually honest. Can also on occasion be a gambler and a dissembler expert in calculated bluffing._ He wondered what sort of a political leader wouldn’t fit the description.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, this fic is not an authentic representation of the workings of governments and secret agencies in the 70s. I am Lee Childing it. Still, here are some notes:
> 
> \- Darcy works for the now-defunct [USIA](http://dosfan.lib.uic.edu/usia/usiahome/oldoview.htm#overview).
> 
> \- The description Steve is reading is actually from [the CIA profile on Nikita Khrushchev](https://www.motherjones.com/politics/2015/02/cia-psychological-profiles-hitler-castro-putin-saddam/) from the 60s, but I found it too funny to ignore.
> 
> \- Kissinger was known to be, um, critical of the CSCE. The rest is character assassination. I believe.


	4. Mamma Mia

They got to Helsinki after over a day of traveling. The drive from the airport took them, a little surprisingly, through countryside.

Lewis’ face lit up in delight when they saw farm animals by the road.

”Cows!” she said happily. ”Are they real?”

The interpreter who had accompanied them looked a little sullen, like he was ashamed of the rural nature of the view and had hoped the visitors wouldn’t comment on it. ”We’ll be in the city soon,” he said.

Steve found himself smiling. ”My grandma kept dairy cows,” he said.

”What, in Brooklyn?” Lewis glanced at him but mainly looked at the horses that they drove past next.

”You could do that in the 20s.”

”Huh. They didn’t mention that in the biographies.”

The interpreter looked bemused and Steve wondered if he knew who he was. Lewis seemed to have thought the same.

”He looks great for his age,” she said. ”I wouldn’t worry about it.”

They parted with the interpreter at the hotel. They’d arrived driving through what made up the center of the city, past the railway station and the Parliament House.

”I can’t believe it’s so hot here, too,” Lewis sighed. ”Isn’t it supposed to be cold and dreary?”

The hotel lobby was busy but airy, with light streaming in from the huge windows. The design was spare, with modern, angular armchairs and low tables the only furniture in the room.

”There was a call for you earlier,” the receptionist said as Steve was finally checking in. He fished a note from under the desk. ”A… Ms Rushman.” He handed the note to Steve.

_Hotel bar, 7 pm._

”Thank you,” Steve said, and followed Lewis to the elevators. She was staying on another floor in a shared room, but she followed Steve to his ”to check it out.”

”I have never seen a suite from the inside,” she said, inspecting the brown-and-orange patterned carpet of the hallway.

The hotel was swarming with other visitors, mostly Americans. Steve steeled himself for any interruptions, but none came. It was as if people had something more important in their mind, he thought to himself, a blush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. What did he expect, a red carpet?

In any case, he’d been given a suite of his own. 

”Private bathroom? Get out of here,” Lewis exclaimed. She went around the room, inspecting the wallpaper and the few nondescript landscape paintings on the walls. There was a sitting area with a small sofa and an armchair, of the same modern variety that didn’t look especially inviting.

Steve wondered whether he should wait for her to leave before unpacking, but she showed no signs of boredom or pressure to leave, so he popped his suitcase open. In any case, he had long since gotten used to sharing private spaces with unmarried women, Natasha being the latest. It hardly mattered if Lewis saw his underwear.

”Well, it’s not Manhattan,” she said. She had stopped in front of the window, arms crossed.

Steve finished hanging up his few shirts – he didn’t carry much – and looked up at the view. She was not wrong: the view from the top floor was beautiful, but most of it was green, dotted here and there with glimpses of rock and light-colored buildings. A few church domes and a small ferris wheel rose from the otherwise flat skyline. It reminded Steve more of an old, sleepy town than a capital city.

After Lewis had left, promising to meet him at 7 am next morning, Steve performed the standard sweep for bugs in his room. He found none, but he took out Stark’s latest anti-bugging devices nonetheless and spent a few minutes planting them around. They wouldn’t block the most sophisticated technology, but the likelihood was that if someone could get past them, their cover had already been blown and they were considered worth spying on by HYDRA. Stark was the provider for above-the-board intelligence agencies after all.

Then, Steve headed down. The hotel bar was done up in the same shades of orange and brown as the rooms. He found Natasha sitting on one of the vinyl-covered stools at the bar. She had let her red hair down and put on green earrings and a dress. Steve felt rather underdressed.

”Natalie Rushman, how do you do,” she said with her one-sided smile as he approached. ”I’m so happy to finally meet you.”

”Likewise.” Steve took his seat next to her. ”Are you staying nearby?”

”Near the US embassy. It’s a little further away, but my partner is on duty right now. I thought I’d like to see the high life.”

”Buy you a drink?”

Steve ordered Natasha a martini. He quickly weighed if he should make that two. He did sometimes drink, and smoke, for appearances’ sake and often simply to have something to do. He settled on soda water, for now.

”Very well, sir,” the bartender said. His accent had a British tinge to it. Steve could hear him conversing in German with the couple next to them.

The bar was slowly filling up with other travelers, most of whom must have been in town for the summit. Many sounded American, and Steve felt very self-conscious all of a sudden.

”You know, this place also has a nightclub.” Natasha accepted her drink with a full smile. ”I just talked to a local gentleman who told me they get all sorts of superstars here. Ella Fitzgerald, Benny Goodman…” She took a sip of her martini, clearly mindful of her lipstick. ”He said ABBA played here in January, and after the show, in the morning, their room was covered in blood. ’From floor to ceiling!’ And the hotel wasn’t allowed to call the police.”

Natasha seemed to find the story extremely amusing.

”Never would’ve guessed ABBA had it in them,” Steve said, ruefully noticing that Natasha had made him think of ”Mamma Mia,” a new hit song you couldn’t shake no matter what.

By the time Natasha had finished her drink, the bar was full enough to feel claustrophobic. It was a weird feeling; not two weeks ago, Steve had infiltrated a paramilitary camp in Colombia, and it had been easier for him to crawl through jungle and take down two dozen armed men alone than it was to have a drink with a colleague. Fortunately, Natasha suggested they go up to his room.

”You’re awfully forward, Ms Rushman,” Steve said.

”You can buy me dinner later.”

Steve was sure people gave them looks as they left the bar and headed towards the lobby.

”It’s okay,” Natasha said, taking his arm as they went into the elevator. ”Captain America should have a date.”

”Aren’t workplace romances a bad idea?”

”You tell me.” Natasha gave him a sidelong look.

There went his blush again. Was she talking about Rumlow still? ”Romance” was hardly the word Steve would have used, but he refrained from saying anything. She might have been just flirting, again, hopeless as it was.

Speaking of Rumlow, Natasha hadn’t invited him this time, as he was unable to meet up with them before the next day when the President arrived. Steve was supposed to spend tomorrow doing the rounds with local and international press, before the hubbub of the summit proper.

The Soviet delegation was arriving tomorrow, and they had to be prepared to tail Sokolov the minute they were in town. They had no idea when the package would be delivered to the contact, and they had to identify the earliest possible moment to copy the tape.

”If the Soviets stick to their itinerary,” Natasha said, when they had spread out their files on Steve’s bed, ”they’ll spend tomorrow at the embassy and dine with the ambassador.”

As a doctor, Sokolov would be expected to stay close to the General Secretary at all times. Steve studied the close-up photograph of him again. His features were unremarkable except for a slightly crooked nose; he was a gaunt man, in his mid-40s. It only now occurred to him to ask Natasha about something he’d thought about ever since seeing Fury.

”How do we know he’s HYDRA, exactly?” He was sure Natasha caught his meaning.

”Are you asking if I’ve seen or met him before?”

”You did know about their resurrection, didn’t you?”

”I did,” she said, frankly. ”At least as much of it as Fury has told me. Need to know and all that jazz.” Steve hardly ever heard of Natasha’s other missions, and she had always appeared closer to Fury than he had ever judged himself to be.

”It wasn’t me who provided the intel, if that’s what you want to know,” she continued. ”I don’t know half of the people who work for SHIELD. You know Fury, even his secrets have secrets.”

She sounded a little testy, probably thinking Steve was trying to accuse her of illegal activities. That wasn’t what bothered Steve, though; it was the opposite. He’d rather have worked on information that came from Natasha than some nameless, faceless informant of Fury’s. They were usually given a certain degree of autonomy on their missions, and direct access to sources. The opaque nature of this job bothered him.

They spent the next hour briefing each other on their intel so far – Steve had nothing to report besides his dealings with his assistant, but Natasha gave him a quick assessment of her new CIA friends – and figuring out when they each had access to Sokolov. Natasha and Rumlow would be close to him more often than not once the talks between the US and the USSR began, and they also had the opportunity to sweep his room at the embassy, where the Soviets were staying. If they were lucky, Sokolov kept the package in his room until he had to move it, and it wouldn’t take long to find it. More likely was that he carried it with him at all times.

As to when the drop-off was going to take place, they could identify a few possible moments. Most likely was sometime during the visit to the US embassy or the conference itself, when the location, the Finlandia Hall, would be crawling with politicians and press from all over Europe.

”Thirty-five countries, there’s got to be a HYDRA agent or two among them,” Natasha said. ”Accredited press would make for a good cover. And police dogs hardly smell bad intentions.”

By the end of the night, they had concluded that they had very little to do before the day after tomorrow. Sokolov would stay at the embassy until then, and the best they could do was concentrate on their cover missions.

”Speaking of which,” Natasha got up from the bed. ”I’m on in an hour. Let’s fill Fury in on our incident-free evening.”

She was carrying Stark’s tablet in her purse, which was just big enough to fit it. She recorded a standard message using coded language like was customary when sending messages over a landline. ”Just in case.” She shrugged. ”Want to sing another song for Tony?”

***

After Natasha left, Steve was restless. The day had been long but his body yearned to move after the long flight and the evening spent hunched over.

He put on his running shoes and headed down. The hotel was quiet now. It was a weekday night, and it looked like there was no show on at the nightclub tonight.

The front desk was now manned by an elderly gentleman who had a neatly trimmed moustache and a pleasant demeanor. However, his understanding of English appeared to be lacking when Steve tried to ask if there was a suitable running track or a recommended route nearby.

”Run?” he repeated. ”To… where?”

”Just a run, around,” Steve said again. He made a loop in the air with a finger, feeling silly. ”Exercise. If you could just show me on a map where that’s appropriate.”

He was starting to think he should just go outside and figure it out himself when a woman in her twenties walked out of the back room and the man took the opportunity to signal at her.

” _Tulisitko Hanna tänne_ ,” he said discreetly, giving Steve a polite smile.

”Evening, Captain, how may I assist you?”

The younger clerk had a pageboy haircut, a lot of blue eyeshadow and, again, a slight British note in her voice. Steve sighed inwardly out of relief and smiled at her.

”Evening, ma’am. I was just wondering if you could point me somewhere I could go for a run. Perhaps, if there’s a park nearby,” he offered. ”It’s alright to run at night, isn’t it?” There was no curfew, was there?

The clerk took out a map. ”It is a little strange, maybe, but yes.” She looked like she wanted to laugh. ”And you are in luck. You can just cross the street and enter the park here.” She pointed out the hotel on the map and tapped the street next to it.

”The Hesperia park is next to the –" she said a word Steve couldn’t begin to catch, "– bay, and there is a path that runs along the waterfront.” She moved her lacquered fingernail up. ”You can run around the bay, just follow the shoreline. Past the houses on the other side, then there’s the rail yard, and you’re back –" she tapped the map again, "– here.”

She looked up at him. ”It’s a good idea to run at night, actually. The water is quite dirty so you won’t see it. It used to be a, how do you say, a place for waste,” she said happily, like she was talking about a tourist attraction. ”I could show you another route, if you’d like something more popular.”

”That’s alright, thank you. I think I’ll enjoy the quiet,” Steve said. ”Thank you for your help.” She handed him the map. ”How do you say ’thank you’?”

” _Kiitos_. Key-toss.” She looked delighted as Steve tried it out.

”Have a good run, Captain,” she said as he headed out.

The water in the bay didn’t appear to be as dirty as the clerk had made it sound. She had probably never seen, or smelled, the Hudson in summer. Besides, there was a cool wind that Steve appreciated. It was dead quiet, and it wasn’t even dark yet, despite it being after 10 pm. The last rays of the sun still peeked through the trees and the low buildings, bathing the sky in pink and purple.

Steve ran around the small bay three times. It took a while to get his senses to focus on the running alone; in a new environment, however benign, his brain went on overdrive with sensory input, cataloguing everything in the vicinity. There were some lights on in the buildings on the eastern side of the bay, but the rail yard was quiet. The path went by the Finlandia Hall, a blocky asymmetrical building that would house the summit later in the week.

After the first lap, Steve felt himself relax into the flow of running. It was amazingly serene for a downtown of a city. Steve tried to remember the last time it had been this quiet around him. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and his heartbeat, and his feet hitting the ground. Even the fowl that he saw on the waterfront, ducks huddled together, were still.

He was back on the west side of the bay and about to go for a final, fourth lap when something moving in the bushes caught his attention. In the otherwise silent park, the sudden noise of movement was loud.

It was probably an animal, or a vagrant, Steve thought, come to sleep in peace and quiet. He slowed down in case it was someone who needed help.

Suddenly, the person in the bushes stepped out of them. It was a man, not looking homeless in the least but instead wearing a coat and a hat. He was far enough that Steve couldn’t make out more of him in the now darkened night. It didn’t seem like he had noticed Steve.

Steve was about to call out when the sound of a car horn cut through the air. It sounded almost indecent.

The man in the shadows looked up and started a brisk walk towards where the headlights of a car now shone up on the road. As he approached the car, Steve could see his silhouetted profile in stark detail.

At once, his breath caught in his throat. He felt feverishly dizzy, and his heart ached like it was about to explode.

He would have known that face anytime, anywhere. The line of the nose, the curve of the lips, the jawline. He wanted to make a sound, any sound, but he couldn’t.

It wasn’t until the man had climbed into the car and it was speeding away that Steve could move his legs again. He could only think of one word, which he mouthed silently, for the first time in years.

 _Bucky_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Now popular jogging destination, the Töölönlahti bay was gross af back in the day. I am not sure if people used to actually run there before the 00s.
> 
> \- The ABBA story is true. I mean, it might be a lie, but it exists.


	5. A Date with a Ghost

The morning found Steve sleepless and sweaty.

The sun had come up before 5 am, and Steve gave up trying to fall asleep. Usually it was easy for him to control the basic functions of his body; he could go on without rest for a few days, and when he finally had the time, it was easy to fall asleep. He rarely had any memorable dreams, either.

Now, he’d slept in fits and starts, only to find his dreams plagued with what he’d just seen in the park. He woke up abruptly, the name of his friend on the tip of his heavy tongue. _Bucky_. If he’d only opened his mouth. _Bucky_. 

Rationally, he knew the man in the park couldn’t have been Bucky. He had been dead for thirty years, two if you counted Steve’s experience of time. If he was honest with himself, not a day had gone by over the two years that he didn’t spare a thought or two to Bucky. He knew he hadn’t forgotten his face, not a single line of it, and besides, the man in the park had moved in an excruciatingly familiar way, now that Steve played back the moment in his mind over and over again.

Had he been dreaming the whole time? Then why were his shoes stained?

Steve squashed his pillow over his face and let out a groan of aimless frustration.

Even a cold shower didn’t help with the heat, which seemed to be building up in the room. Still, Steve headed downstairs in a button-down shirt and trousers, suit jacket on his arm, to meet Lewis and the brand new day.

She was sitting in a booth at the hotel restaurant with their interpreter and a pile of newspapers.

“Morning, big guy. I took the liberty of ordering your breakfast. Hope you’re hungry.”

Steve wasn’t, but he was still grateful for the normalcy of bacon and eggs. As he ate, Lewis and Kunnas, the interpreter, went over the morning papers.

“‘In a show of typical arrogance, the Americans have gifted us with a wartime relic by including in their delegation Captain America himself,’” she read from her earlier notes. “‘It hasn’t been a secret that the Americans see ETYK’ – that’s CSCE – ‘as a Soviet playground and have had to be dragged into participating. Perhaps they are demonstrating their unwillingness by throwing such a gift in the basket.’ Rough translation. It goes on.” She read a few more choice quotes.

Steve swallowed a mouthful of eggs that tasted like ash to him. “Is there any indication that it was a good idea to send me here?”

Lewis gave him a look. “Opinions like these are the reason you were sent here.”

Despite what the editorials said, the people in Helsinki seemed to be in a good mood. It was holiday season, and the streets were filled with locals, tourists and international press. When they left the hotel, Steve saw that the park he had ran through yesterday was now busy with construction workers laying asphalt on the paths near the Finlandia Hall and working on the curb. Wired fences were carried around, and on the other side it looked like people were taking apart a wooden shack on the rail yard. Children had flocked to stare at the proceedings.

It struck Steve that it looked like someone had decided to tear down the stage of his nightly encounter. Perhaps it really was just a dream.

Lewis took him to his first press outing for the day, which consisted of an assortment of student papers and political journals. It took place outside, and the young reporters were fanning themselves with their pads and looking alternately bored and curious.

”Alright, these guys are literal commies,” Lewis told him before the questions started. ”Feel free to badmouth Tricky Dick, it’s a good look.”

As it was, the reporters seemed careful in their approach, and mostly wanted to know about Steve’s experiences in Finland so far. He told them about the cows.

The gathering was almost over when there was a loud commotion and a new group of people pushed their way through the crowd. It was not an unfamiliar sight: a group of skinny, long-haired kids, dressed in ragged jeans and T-shirts, most of them carrying photographs and signs. _JUSTICE FOR ALLENDE_ , said one. _9/11/1973_.

When the group spotted Steve, they seemed to have found their target and started singing.

”’Solidarity with the people of Chile,'” Kunnas translated, somewhat needlessly, at his side.

Suddenly, a girl tore herself off the group and sprinted towards Steve.

In the second before she hit him, Steve had time to anguish over whether he should catch her or try to back off. He knew how it’d look; an American man of his size holding down a tiny, protesting student, all laid out for cameras to capture.

”War criminal,” the protester hissed at him as she collided with his chest. Steve settled for wrapping his arm around her bony frame. Her attempt at smashing her fist into his side must have hurt her more than it did him, and she gasped. Then Steve had her tied down under one arm, her arms locked tight against her body. He lifted her up just a fraction so she couldn’t get purchase against the ground, and she kicked him in the shin.

”How did it feel when you put a bullet in Allende,” she spat. _I wouldn’t know_ , Steve thought wildly. _I wasn’t there. Even if I could have been._

”Please calm down,” Steve said, frustration brewing in his chest. He could hear the camera shutters clicking.

The girl yelled something in Finnish and kicked her legs as two policemen finally emerged from the crowd. She tried to spit one of them in the face. The policeman looked bewildered more than anything, lifting his palms up.

” _No niin, no niin_ ,” he said. ” _Annetaanpa olla tämmönen._ ”

”I’m going to let go of you now,” Steve said and loosened his grip. The girl’s feet touched the ground and he let her shake his arm off. She looked angry but let the police take her away, going peacefully after all. She shot a final look at Steve over her shoulder, looking as frustrated as he felt. The other students cheered as she was walked past their group, but when the police shooed them back, they complied.

There wasn’t a scratch on him and the incident was hardly a strain but Steve felt angry, not at the girl but in an aimless, tiring way.

”You got what you wanted?” he snapped at the nearest photographer who had veered closer.

Lewis approached him, pushing people unceremoniously out of the way. ”Excuse me – sorry –” She grabbed him by the elbow and tugged him away. ”Let’s go, Steve. Come on.” Steve let her lead the way through the crowd, which was starting to disperse anyway.

”So much for good PR, huh?” Steve said bitterly. 

”I can’t believe they didn’t get you any security,” she huffed, still holding his arm. ”What if someone shot you?”

”You do realize I’m my own security,” Steve said, comforted by her indignation despite everything. ”It would just be putting security guards at risk. Better I get shot than anyone else.”

Lewis continued muttering about subpar security measures, and then turned her attention to spinning the situation. ”It was a contained incident, at least. I can contact my friends at AP, make sure they don’t buy a photo off of any of those guys. Tass is a problem, they’d love a piece of that, but I can –”

”Darcy. It’s alright,” Steve said. ”Does it matter if the world sees what happened?”

After the immediate wave of reflexive anger had passed through him, he thought of how the photos would turn out. The metaphorical value of the scene didn’t escape him, but in the end, a picture of it wouldn’t show anyone anything they didn’t already think. If the US Army wanted to promote transparency and responsibility, there was value in eschewing censorship. Besides, what did one little moment like that mean when there were days of political thrills yet to come?

”Do you have any idea of how the press works?” Lewis was incredulous. ”You know Pravda and ND are just waiting to eat you alive. I can hear telex singing the fucking Internationale from here.”

There was a glint in her eyes that Steve was witnessing for the first time. He knew Lewis was just doing her job, and he was here as decoration, he reminded himself. He’d had to let her do what she thought was best.

***

Steve’s shinbone was still tingling when he finished lunch with three reporters from Finnish magazines.

”These are the hardball guys,” Lewis had instructed him. ”Remember to say ’détente’ as often as you can. And say something nice about Mr Secretary.” Then she left to deal with what she had termed ”a minor snafu.”

The local reporters seemed above all reserved and polite. One of them spoke English fluently, and the others were happy to spend, a little unnervingly, more time talking with Kunnas than him.

It was a curious feeling being surrounded by people speaking a language he knew nothing of; he could hold a conversation in German and Spanish, and make his way through a sentence in Russian and French, but none of those languages were any help here. His brain had an aptitude for picking up patterns quickly, which made language-acquisition easy, but after less than a day he had very little to work with.

”You work for the State Department nowadays, right?” the reporter asked, a cigarette dangling precariously in the corner of his mouth as he lit it. Steve declined one when offered. The man seemed to be up-to-date on American foreign policy but not intent on grilling him. He asked about a few friends in Washington, none of whom Steve knew.

At the end of the lunch, he felt like he’d mostly wasted the journalists’ time. ”Not at all,” Kunnas consoled him, looking a little perplexed that Steve would think so.

The next interview with international press felt like more of the same, even if the Spanish and French newsmen actually laughed at his jokes.

After that, he had a couple of hours off, and he decided to walk where the streets took him. The downtown of Helsinki was small, bordered on the south by the sea. It was a mix of old and new, like any other place, but arranged in a neatly segregated way. The gleaming white domed church that was a big tourist attraction was surrounded by 19th century architecture, which abruptly gave way to modern office buildings and housing.

The market between a small harbor and the Presidential Palace was filled with stalls selling fish and vegetables of all kinds. Steve decided not to try to work his way through the packed square and headed instead into a park situated between two streets that were filled with sluggish traffic.

People moved slowly, too, strolling through the park in the sweltering heat. It was the perfect picture of a summer day: kids with ice-cream running around, smiling young couples hand in hand, air filled with the almost too sweet scent of flowers in high summer. The park was overseen by somber statues, whose authority was somewhat undermined by seagulls sitting on their heads. If not for the clothing and the cars, Steve could have imagined he had traveled a hundred years back in time.

Steve reached the middle of the park, where the promenade widened into a circle. He let his eyes wander from bench to bench where people were smoking, reading and enjoying the sun.

Then, his eyes fell on a solitary man who was scribbling something in a pad of paper. 

Steve found himself correcting his course, slowly approaching the bench until he was close enough to see that the man had a journalist’s badge pinned to his shirt, indicating he was here for the summit. He was in shirtsleeves, and his hair was long, falling over his eyes.

It was Bucky. It had to be him. Alive and well. Steve was about to say his name out loud, finally, when the man looked up. Steve could have cried.

“Yes?” He gave a tentative smile and brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. He had Bucky’s voice. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, yes, I,” Steve stammered. “Do you know me? I mean, do we know each other?”

Bucky, or his doppelganger, looked surprised at first and then he let out a little snort of laughter. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Steve wanted to kiss him right there and then.

“I do know you,” he said pointedly. “I doubt you know who I am. I think I’d remember meeting Captain America before.”

He sounded sincere, like he genuinely was just a friendly stranger. Steve swallowed and didn’t even try to fight his blush.

“Sorry to bother you. It’s just – you look just like an old friend of mine,” he said weakly. “For a moment there, I – I’m sorry, I’ll leave you to it.” He gestured towards the pad of paper in the familiar stranger’s hands.

“Oh, no, it’s no bother. I was just taking notes.” He closed the pad and slipped his pen into his shirt pocket. Steve noticed that he seemed to have no movement in his left arm, which he still deftly used for support. “I guess I should make a note of you, too.”

There was a lightly teasing undertone in his voice that was all too familiar.

“James McGill. Nice to meet you, Captain,” he said, standing up and holding out his good hand. _James_. It took a while for Steve to react accordingly.

“Steve Rogers. Not a Captain anymore,” he said as they shook hands and he was sure he was going to die. Something was going to implode inside his chest.

“Then nice to meet you, Steve. Are you in a hurry?”

They both sat down on the bench, and incredibly, this James engaged him in small talk about the summit and the city. Steve found himself replying earnestly to every one of his questions, barely paying any attention to the sun and the people passing by.

“I was asked to cover the summit on a short notice,” James said. “I’m not actually a political correspondent. I’m a travel writer and just happened to be in the vicinity.” He mentioned the name of a Chicago publication.

“You’re from from around Chicago, then?” Steve couldn’t detect a hint of the accent.

“Nah, I’m kinda from everywhere. Moved a lot since I was a kid. I got this latest job because of a friend, but I’ve been mostly spending my time abroad. I was in Stockholm when they called me to change my plans.”

James seemed happy that Steve wanted to know more about his work, and he told a little about the kind of articles he wrote. “The newsroom isn’t for me,” he said with another smile. He did longer pieces, and was planning on penning a more in-depth article on the conference. “The problem is, politics really isn’t for me, either. I’m still trying to find a way into the story. Something, or someone.” He looked Steve in the eye. “How about you give me an interview?”

Steve’s heart jolted.

“Oh, so all this sweet talk was just to get me to give you an exclusive, huh?” He immediately regretted his tone, low, suggestive and a little out of breath. His voice hadn’t sounded like that in his ears in ages. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed talking like this.

James just grinned, nonplussed. “Gotta use all my tricks.”

He got up and stretched, glancing at his watch, which he wore on his right wrist. “Oh, shoot, it’s almost 2 pm. I have to wire out my morning bulletin.” He made a face. “They do require some ‘actual journalistic work’ as they put it.”

Steve realized they’d been talking for over an hour. He’d had to check in with Rumlow and Natasha soon.

“How about we meet later today,” James suggested as they got out of the park, walking across the street and towards the corner of the hotel that hosted the US communications center for the duration of the summit. “Unless you’re busy.”

“I’ve got a meeting at six,” Steve said, racking his brain. “After dinner, I’m yours.”

“How about we make it seven thirty? Your place or mine?”

They agreed to meet at the Hesperia and Steve gave James his room details. He then watched James disappear into the busy hotel with other reporters, who went in and out in a constant stream. It took someone bumping into his shoulder to push him out of the haze.

Shaking his head at himself, his thoughts scattered and skin prickling all over, Steve headed to call Natasha.

Had he just agreed to a date with a ghost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Alright, a handwringey note on real life foreign relations: The campaign for solidarity with Chile was a big, serious deal in the 70s, and mine is a really frivolous representation of their actions. As far as I can tell, the Finnish Chilean Society would never have held a protest during "Etyk 75" as the summit was for a peaceful cause which enjoyed nearly unanimous support. However, for the sake of this alternate reality where Steve does exist and has been rather thoughtlessly thrown into this situation, I think it would provoke some protest among young Finns and his public image would inevitably be linked with the events of 1973. You can listen to an Agit Prop song on Allende's death [here](https://www.antiwarsongs.org/canzone.php?id=49400&lang=en).
> 
> \- You can also virtually visit [the Esplanadi park](http://vihreatsylit.fi/en/esplanadinpuisto/).


	6. Incredibly Risky, Entirely Illegal and Obviously Crazed

On the way to his meeting with Natasha, Steve had time to calm down and think the situation through.

It was true that people had real life lookalikes, sometimes eerily identical, but James looked so much like the Bucky Barnes he had grown up with that it seemed impossible. The same, slightly crooked incisor on the left; the shape of his eyebrows; his laugh lines – it beggared belief to think that someone with the exact same bone structure would have developed the same exact features, not to mention the mannerisms.

But what was he, if not Bucky’s coincidental doppelganger? Steve’s brain almost refused to think about it, but he had to.

He thought back on his discussion with Natasha the previous evening. _Good cover._ Could it be that this man, Bucky or not, was sent by HYDRA? Was he even, possibly, the connection between Red Hydra and its American counterpart?

And if he was, did he actually know Steve and his connection to SHIELD? Why would he make open contact like this?

Whatever the truth was, it was an incredible coincidence, and Steve knew there were no such things as coincidences. Working for SHIELD had taught him as much.

He thought of telling his teammates about the incident, but in the end he decided against it. It was so far extraneous information, he reasoned, not fooling even himself. He would talk about it after tonight, if it turned out there was something more substantial to talk about.

In any case, Natasha had news and she told him over the phone that she wanted to meet in person. Her shift as a CIA agent at the US Embassy was over, and she asked Steve to meet her by the seaside.

“I want ice-cream,” she announced first thing as they strolled past a vendor. Steve waited as she got a cone of vanilla that immediately began to melt in the sun.

They walked down the seaside promenade under linden trees, which offered a little shade. It was more quiet down here, once they had passed the busiest embassies. The President of the US was finally arriving tonight after a detour to Poland, and Natasha told him about the last-minute panic at the Embassy.

“The bilateral meeting starts at 9:35 am tomorrow when the Soviets are scheduled to arrive,” she said. “There’s a photo opportunity for the press, and the actual conversation should begin at ten.”

“Do you know more of Sokolov’s plans?” Steve worried that the melting ice-cream was about to reach Natasha’s knuckles, but she saved herself by licking it off the cone’s side before answering.

“The General Secretary’s health is wavering, and he has his personal doctors on call at all times. They have a room prepared right next door, where Sokolov and the other physicians will stand by for the entire meeting.”

“So, we know that Sokolov will be at the Soviet embassy from tonight until tomorrow morning, and then he will go straight from their embassy to ours. Do you think we need to worry about the night in-between?

Perhaps they should arrange a stake-out. In this case, that would have to mean Steve as Natasha and Rumlow were expected to spend the night at the US Embassy. It wasn’t impossible, even if the nighttime here wasn’t long.

“I don’t believe so,” Natasha said, done with the ice-cream and biting into the cone. “The Soviet embassy is under heavy surveillance by national agencies as it is. HYDRA can’t afford to act like the KGB, or heaven forbid, the CIA. I think our plan of action should be making sure that we – Rumlow and I – have an opportunity to find out if Sokolov carries the tape on himself.”

“And how are you planning on doing that?” Steve had a bad feeling about this.

Natasha crunched a bit of the cone between her teeth and swallowed. She smiled sunnily at kids running by.

“What does it take to alert every Russian doctor in the house?”

***

“That is an incredibly risky, entirely illegal and obviously crazed idea, agent Romanoff.”

Fury’s face was stern on the screen. It hadn’t taken long for them to receive a reply from the Director after Natasha had sent a quick voice message explaining her suggestion. They had walked all the way to the end of the promenade and were alone with the sea and the wind, sitting by a memorial dedicated to those deceased at sea. There was a fire at the top, an eternal flame.

“What you’re proposing could cause not just this summit but the current balance between East and West to come crashing down.” Fury sounded thunderous. Then he smiled. “Go ahead, agent. Poison the General Secretary.”

Steve thought that he probably should have been surprised by Fury showing them the green light, but in truth he wasn’t. The more he learned about SHIELD, the more apparent it became that very few things happened in the world of foreign politics without meddling by some agency or other.

Natasha looked scarily triumphant. “It’s just a heart attack,” she said to Steve, who didn’t care to cover up his skepticism. “We have the means to make sure it’ll be completely non-fatal. All we need is the attention of all the doctors at once, and a cardiac arrest scare should be enough to do that.”

“Alright. Say it all goes smoothly. Do you have access to the doctors’ room?”

“I’m involved in planning the security checks, so that’s not a problem.”

“And what about afterwards? Won’t this be a disaster for the summit?” It would certainly overshadow anything Steve could do in public.

“Most likely no. The Soviets are extremely keen on Brezhnev's image holding up even though he’s been sick for a while now. Everybody knows he isn’t well, and it’s possible he’s had heart attacks before. So, it’s entirely plausible for him to collapse, and they are prepared to keep the press mum themselves, at least until the end of the summit. Neat, huh?”

Neat, alright. Steve sighed.

“Okay. I know you know what you’re doing, Natasha. I just wish you worried a little more.”

“Why should I? I keep you around for that.”

She gave him a look of her trademark wry amusement, but Steve could tell there was tension behind her smile.

***

After the walk back, when they had parted again, Steve returned to his hotel. He would have dinner at six with Lewis, Kunnas and some expatriate Americans. Before that, he would have time to worry about his meeting with James.

Steve knew he had to do everything to make sure James McGill was who he said he was, but he was reluctant to do it. It wasn’t too difficult to perform background checks these days with modern technology, which was exactly why it was so hard. One phone call or answered query could confirm his worst suspicions.

It was an attractive thought to let it all go and just enjoy the moment. The bubbling sensation under his skin, the butterflies in his stomach – it was exactly like the infatuation with Bucky he had lived with for so long. Even after they had finally realized what they had been harboring inside themselves all along and fell into a sexual and romantic relationship, he never quite lost that feeling.

Steve could still remember the last time they were together, in Italy. It was after he had miraculously found Bucky again, after mourning him once already, and they had spent the whole night tangled in each other in their tent. Even as his memories of the war faded, he could still see in clear detail Bucky’s face that night. His anger, relief, sorrow, determination.

Steve pressed his palms against his eyes, groaning. He had sat on his bed next to the telephone for thirty minutes. What was wrong with him?

Telling himself to get a grip, he dialed the center and asked for an international call.

***

Lewis and Kunnas arrived at the dinner a little late, together.

“My apologies,” Kunnas muttered, but Lewis swatted him on the arm. “Don’t apologize. We got stuck in traffic, didn’t we?” The buttons of her blouse were suspiciously askew, and Steve hid his smile behind the menu.

Traffic was a good opening gambit for discussion. The city had filled with convoys of black cars, and everyone was eager to catch a glimpse of the American and the Soviet leaders. Children waving small US and USSR flags tried their best to push past adults’ legs, and many were hefted up on their parents’ shoulders. Even knowing the sort of things that went on behind closed doors, the sight filled Steve with something akin to hope.

Part of his lifted mood was because of the results from the calls he had had time to make. At first, he’d made sure the newspaper that James had talked about did, in fact, employ one James McGill. The person on the other end of the line asked if he had called in to make a correction. “We have had complaints about poetic license before.” Steve assured her it was fine, said that he was in fact a fan of McGill’s writing and asked her to pass it on.

If he’d had more time, he could’ve tried to find out if James was registered as a resident in Sweden. Anything beyond that he would need his SHIELD clearance for, but he was still apprehensive of alerting anyone. He settled for calling the US communications center, only a few blocks away, and confirming that they, too, had a James McGill on their list and that he used their telex service.

The dinner was both nice and interminably long. Steve found himself enjoying chatting with other Americans more than he had expected. He didn’t actually have time for much socializing outside work, so it was oddly refreshing to hear American voices talk about something else than spywork and exchange cynical jabs.

Perhaps it was generational. The men in the group, both in their sixties, had served in WWII, one in the Navy and the other in the Army. The women had worked on the homefront. Steve found himself swapping wartime stories, the daylight-proof kind, but without feeling like he had to put on the mask of Captain America for once. No one at the table had any fondness for war, but for the first time in a while, he was reminded of the reasons he had wanted to enlist. It often felt like a lifetime ago.

Everything going on inside and outside, in his head and on the streets, made it feel like the future and the past were mixing, turning into something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, Darcy is living her best life as a baby Washington spinmaster and enjoying a summer fling while she's at it. I have mentally cast [this dude](https://imgur.com/a/dSWrE09) as the interpreter because she deserves the best our gene pool can offer.


	7. The Right Kinda Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some visual refs for clothing at this point: Steve is a classy older gentleman and dresses in a mid-to-late 60s style. Think [The Italian Job era Michael Caine](https://imgur.com/a/2pl0U4d), sans glasses. James is a 70s kid. I'm thinking something like [Bradley Cooper in The American Hustle](https://imgur.com/a/N715r0u). No perm, obviously. (I tried to find some authentic pictures, but men's fashion in the 70s was by and large really, really terrible and I just couldn't do it to myself anymore.)
> 
> Kents are the kind of grosso old-timey cigs you would smoke in a Finnish hotel bar at the time, when we didn't worry about asbestos yet.
> 
> There's also a magically quick hotel laundry service in this chapter, but pay it no mind.

Before going down to meet James, Steve spent a needlessly long amount of time fussing over what to wear.

He hadn’t brought much, as the mission would only last a few days, and the forecast had promised uniformly warm weather. If anything, Steve hadn’t anticipated how hot it could get this far North.

Steve wasn’t too keen on keeping up with what was fashionable, and as he had slowly tried to catch up with the decades of popular culture he had missed, he had settled comfortably somewhere in the ‘60s, just like he had with music. The modern age was busy as it was, and he could deal with it all later, although he was quite sure he would never want to grow out his hair.

_Tie or no tie. Jacket or no jacket._

In the middle of it, Steve burst out laughing, a little hysterically, at himself. That was it, he was going crazy in the heat. 

”Ridiculous,” he muttered, finally pulling on his neatest, dark gray pants and combing his hair. No to a tie. Yes to a jacket.

He found James waiting for him at the hotel lobby. It was early in the evening, and not terribly busy at the bar, so he suggested they have a drink.

”I thought Captain America didn’t drink,” James said, smiling, as Steve took a sip of his scotch and soda.

”He doesn’t.” Steve put his glass down. ”And I can’t physically get drunk. It’s a bit of a drag.” He flashed James a smile. ”It could come in handy sometimes.”

”What about smoking?” James fished a pack of Kent out of his breast pocket. Steve took one and waited for James to hand him the lighter, watching as the other man shook out a smoke, caught it in the corner of his mouth and lit it, all quick and one-handed.

The tiniest brush of their fingers felt electric and Steve was sure the whole bar could sense the longing and the desperation radiating off of him.

”So, did you wanna ask me something?” He took a drag and looked James in the eye.

”That’s the idea.” James pulled out his pad and a pencil, turning a fresh leaf and jotting down a note.

”Are you going to write about my bad habits?”

”Depends.” James’ voice was again teasing. ”Do you have any?”

Steve couldn’t help but smile wider. It was easy to talk with James, drink and smoke and tell him about what he’d seen so far. He even told him about the protesting girl, how her bird-boned body had felt like against his.

”Sometimes, and I know this is ungrateful, I wish I wasn’t this strong. It’s – it’s easy for people to take their anger out on someone stronger than they are.” He put out his cigarette and picked up his glass, fiddling with it. ”I know because that’s how I used to think. That I was small enough that nothing I could do could somehow ever be… too much. That when I punched someone, they would always deserve it, just because I was weak.”

He shook his head at himself, feeling immediately uncomfortable. It was something he never would have said to Bucky, not before the war. You didn’t think of things like that back then.

”Sorry for gettin’ all weepy on you.” He looked up at James, who had been staring at him with a soft look in his eyes. ”Your shirt –”

There was a patch of blue just over James’ heart, on his shirt pocket. ”Oh, shoot, the pen –,” he plucked out a fountain pen which had become uncorked and bled out its ink.

”Occupational hazard,” he said sheepishly, dabbing at his shirt with a napkin. Steve bit his lip.

”You know, the hotel has a quick laundry service. If you’d like, we could go up to my room and wait ’til your shirt’s clean and dry.”

And so, they ended up in the elevator together, alone. As it made its slow way up, Steve was more aware than ever of James’ body next to him, his heat and the scent of his aftershave. He curled his hands into loose fists, trying to control his breathing.

”I –”

”Do you –”

They both laughed. ”You first,” Steve said.

”It’s nothing, I was just going to say this is a much nicer place than I’m staying.”

The elevator dinged and they got out.

”It’s a little too modern for my tastes, you know, the armchairs,” Steve said, feeling giddy and expectant. ”But other than that, no complaints.” _Not now when I’ve got you in my room._

After the door was closed, Steve quickly called the front desk and asked if he could have just one shirt washed and pressed. James had flung off his jacket and was unbuttoning the shirt, revealing sun-tanned skin, a white undershirt and a strong right arm. His left arm was prosthetic from the shoulder down, with lifelike color and a joint at the elbow and the wrist. Steve realized it had some independent movement, slow and limited as it was.

”Does this make you uncomfortable?” James asked, taking the shirt off and folding it.

”No, it’s interesting.” Steve couldn’t help but wonder how James had lost his arm, but he didn’t want to pry. ”Is that Stark tech?”

”Ah, it’s actually another company, a new one. AIM.” James held out the arm, bent it slightly at the elbow. ”It’s experimental, I volunteered for their program. It’s connected to… somewhere, in my nerves, I don’t really understand it myself. Never really had a head for this sort of thing.”

”Does it hurt to move it?” Steve was genuinely fascinated. He stepped closer and James let him inspect the arm. ”Can I?”

James nodded, and he touched the arm. It was cool to the touch. ”No, it doesn’t hurt,” James murmured, taking a step closer himself so they were an inch apart. ”It’s more of a tingle. At the base of my skull.” His eyes were half-lidded and he wet his lower lip.

Steve ran his hand up the arm until he reached the shoulder, where the artificial joined the organic. He ran his thumb along the scar-like tissue there, breathing in slow, enjoying the heat of the other man’s body. ”And does it hurt here?” He whispered, mouth tingling and so tantalizingly close to James’.

”No, I –”

A knock on the door forced them apart. Steve huffed out a laugh and hurried to take James’ shirt to the door. ”Can I call you when I need it delivered back up?” he asked.

The door closed again, Steve leaned against it with a sigh. He looked at James, overheated and brimming with want.

”Come back here,” James breathed out, and Steve complied, taking two long strides until they collided in the middle, mouths crashing together.

Steve was sure he let out an undignified sound but he couldn’t care. He had his arms full of hard muscle, heady masculine scent and silky skin. He ran his palm up James’ right arm, sure he could feel every little hair under his fingertips. James’ mouth was hot and insistent and he tugged Steve towards the bed. Steve followed blindly, almost falling over his feet.

”Oh, fuck –” Steve hit his leg on the bed side and James laughed into his mouth, turning it into another deep kiss and maneuvering them so Steve had to sit down on the bed.

”And Captain America swears, too,” he said in between kisses, out of breath and looking as wildly excited as Steve felt.

”Only in the right kinda company.” Steve pulled James towards himself, while trying to crawl back to get on the bed. Moving wasn’t easy as it was impossible for them to let go of each other, but James seemed to get his idea and got on the bed, pushing Steve back with his not inconsiderable strength.

Steve went pliantly down on his back, legs falling open. James pushed between them with a languid roll of his hips, natural and graceful, like he belonged there. In an instant, Steve went from pleasantly hard to painfully aroused and he pulled James down into another kiss, hips bucking up.

They kissed for a long while. James licked messily across his mouth, and Steve chased his lips, feeling dizzy with how much he wanted this. It was just like before, even headier, bottled up for years. The promise of James’ hard dick pushed against his thigh made him rock up heedlessly. He knew he could come like this, wound up and already trembling on the edge.

He couldn’t believe he wasn’t kissing Bucky, and his brain was slipping up, giving him permission to imagine this was really him.

Bucky rested his weight on his left arm and brought his right hand to Steve’s cheek, then his neck, thumb pressing against the pulse point there. He kept kissing Steve, alternating between wet and sloppy and soft and light. He bit into Steve’s lower lip, playfully, and Steve gasped and dug his fingers into the hard muscle of Bucky’s thigh.

Steve’s erection was a hot, insistent weight pressed between them and he moaned when long fingers skidded down his chest, his abdomen, finally finding his fly. Bucky moved back a little to pull the zipper down, but just as he tugged at it, Steve’s conscious brain caught up. 

”Wait – oh, fuck –”

He grabbed James’ wrist, causing the other man to falter a little. He sat up looking confused. _No._

”Something wrong?” His voice was rough. The front of his pants was borderline indecent to look at, showing he was just as affected as Steve, if not more. Steve was sure no one had looked at him so hungrily before, and every one of his cells screamed to pull James back into him and let him take him apart.

”Sorry, I can’t – I can’t do this,” he all but whispered, voice shivering. He couldn’t do this to James, who had no idea Steve was just using him for his selfish fantasy. His dick pulsed painfully in protest.

 _It’s just sex_ , a desperate part of him thought. _He doesn’t need to know._

But Steve knew that if he did this, he would be plagued with guilt afterwards. Another thought, more paranoid, joined in.

_And if he’s Bucky, with his memory gone, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s taking advantage either way._

”I’m sorry, I thought –” James pulled back, and Steve’s fingers itched to grab him. James wet his lips. ”I thought that’s why you brought me up here.”

 _I did. And I shouldn’t have._ Steve wanted to cry. He could feel his dick letting out a spurt of precome, and he had to avert his eyes from James’ mouth.

”Did I misjudge?” James added carefully as he moved even further away. He sat down on the edge of the bed and Steve clambered up to do the same.

”No, you didn’t, believe me,” Steve sighed. He pulled his half-open zipper up. His erection hurt, the kind of sweet pressure anticipating orgasm, ready to burst at the seams. James was so close. ”It’s just – god, it’s been so long,” he lied quickly, squeezing his eyes shut. _Not entirely a lie._

”I got cold feet,” he said, a lame excuse. He could practically feel James’ eyes on him. A moment passed, tense.

”Well, if that was cold feet, I can’t wait to see you all hot and bothered.” James’ voice was light but flirty, trying the ice.

Steve couldn’t help but snort a little. He opened his eyes and looked at James again.

”That’s a terrible line.” He let his voice dip lower again. It was easy, looking at the other man. His hair was a mess, cheeks flushed, lips bitten raw. _I want your hands on me now._ But Steve knew he had to proceed with caution. ”I do want this. With you. You wouldn’t believe it. But I – I think I need some time. Just – a day?”

James’ eyes softened. He reached over to take Steve’s hand.

”It’s okay. I get it. Believe me, it’s been a while for me too. I guess I just got excited when you started flirting with me. It’s always difficult to meet people, and, well, you know.”

”I started flirting with you?” Steve smiled. ”I believe it was you who asked me to sit on a park bench with you.”

”Come on, the whole ’you look like a friend’ routine?” James grinned at him. ”I bet that works every time.”

They kissed again, slowly and with no intent but to linger in the moment, no matter how much Steve wanted to press James back on the bed and get him out of his tight pants.

”Can I see you again soon?” he murmured against James’ cheek. He couldn’t let go of this, even if he needed to clear some more things up first.

”I hope so.” James dropped a light kiss just below his ear. Bucky’s favorite spot. ”Are you free tomorrow night?”

Steve, thank heavens, was.

”Can I, uh, take a quick cold shower?” James gestured towards his crotch. ”I don’t wanna cause a scandal getting out of your room like this.”

”Of course.” Steve got up to find him a towel. He managed to will his own erection to flag a little, challenging as it was.

James disappeared into the bathroom. Steve took several deep breaths, and then called the front desk to ask if the shirt was done. ”I’ll send someone up right away,” the clerk said.

The water was still running, and Steve tried to concentrate on getting his heart rate down. He was still so keyed up he feared that if James emerged out of the bathroom looking too immodest he might just snap.

Desperately trying to think of something else, he found himself staring at James’ jacket, which he’d thrown on the armchair.

Almost unthinkingly, Steve got up and ran his fingers over the jacket. He felt something in the pocket: a wallet. Feeling only slightly guilty, he pulled it out and opened it.

There wasn’t much there: a bunch of cash in different currencies, dollars, rubles, deutschmarks, Finnish marks and some Swedish krona; a few calling cards; condoms. There was one photograph, folded in the middle. Hesitantly, Steve pulled it out and unfolded it.

A knock on the door made him start, and he almost dropped the wallet, which he hastily slipped back into the jacket.

Heart in his throat, he answered the door and accepted the clean shirt. ”That was quick, thank you,” he said with what had to be a wavering smile.

Not too long after, James stepped out of the bathroom, pulling his undershirt on.

”Perfect timing,” Steve managed to say, passing the shirt to him, and watched him button it up slowly.

They kissed once more before James slipped out of the door, murmuring, ”See you tomorrow.”

When he was gone, Steve sat back down on the bed, hands shaking, thinking of the photograph he’d just seen. A photograph of him and Bucky, standing shoulder to shoulder, from thirty years ago.


	8. The Heritage Carrot

Natasha wanted to see him early in the morning.

It was just as well; Steve had again spent the night tossing and turning. He’d tried masturbating, thinking guiltily of James’ – Bucky’s – body against his, the warmth of his skin, the slickness of his mouth and the weight of his hard-on. It turned him on more than anything had for ages, but when he peaked it was unsatisfying, leaving him both regretful and wanting more.

He met Natasha in a tiny park at the corner of the Parliament House, which was near to both his hotel and the Finlandia Hall, which she had ostensibly come to visit. There were still people working on smoothing the yard and the curb, and the house was now entirely surrounded by wired fence, making it look like a giant fish trap more than anything. Tomorrow, it would be filled with European heads of state and their entourages.

Natasha explained her plan.

”Alright, so, what does our dear Secretary of State desire?”

”Peace in the Middle East?” Steve resisted rubbing his eyes, instead staring at the man on the other side of the street diligently working on the stones of the curb.

”Cookies.” Natasha sounded smug.

”What?”

”All-American, extra-sugary, deliciously unhealthy cookies. I know because I’ve spent the last two days watching him eat them, whenever he’s not on the phone talking about oil.”

”What, so you plan to… overdose the General Secretary with sugar?” Steve was having a hard time connecting the dots here. ”With Kissinger’s cookies?”

”Mm, you could say that. The meeting includes snack breaks. You can’t decide the future of trade and immigration policy on low blood sugar. So, we know for a fact that at some point, the embassy staff is going to bring in a plate of cookies.”

”And you’ll poison it? Won’t everybody else want them, especially the Secretary?” It was somehow hysterical to imagine peace talks fall apart because an overzealous American agent gave Dr Kissinger a heart attack by sugary treats. Weirder things had happened.

”Yes. A careful dose of potassium gluconate should do it. We have the opportunity to prepare our side for the effect with insulin at the breakfast.”

”And what about the Soviet Foreign Minister? Their translator?”

”Gromyko is on a diet, he won’t take them. As for the translator, I think we can try to offer him a personal glass of water. If that doesn’t work, we just have to hope his constitution can take it. We’re talking about a very low dosage here, something to tip the General Secretary’s potassium levels over into hyperkalemia. I’m pretty sure our President could take it even without the extra insulin, but better not take any risks.”

”I can’t believe I have to say this, but there are nothing but risks in this scenario.”

Steve knew he was being petulant, even more than usual, but he was irritated and on the edge. It was very hard to concentrate on anything after yesterday’s events. His mind, which he was usually able to keep under control, was playing back last night in excruciating detail.

It was also becoming clearer and clearer that Fury had indeed devised the trip originally as a two-person mission, trusting Natasha and Rumlow to take care of everything. Steve wondered whether he was actually needed at any point. He would not be included in the summit proceedings until tomorrow when it actually began, and he would not visit the US Embassy today.

”You don’t need to worry about this part,” Natasha said, like she was reading his thoughts again. ”We’ll handle it. You just brush up on your sketching skills and keep your assistant happy. If all goes well, we’ll move to phase two tomorrow.”

***

Once Natasha had departed to visit the fish trap of a building, Steve weighed if he should stay at his hotel and try to catch a few hours of sleep. Lewis had no need for him until later today. However, Steve was sure that his restless mind wouldn’t let him sleep. It was also getting hot already with the sun out in full force. His room, facing East, would surely boil him alive.

Natasha had been right, too: he should dig out his sketchbook, which he had neglected so far.

One of the ideas the State Department’s PR had come up with was taking advantage of a lesser known skill of Steve’s. He was a little perplexed as to how they had even learned of his affinity for drawing in the first place. It must have been mentioned in his old files from the 40s. He had never certainly volunteered the information. It was surprising, then, that he’d been asked to produce sketches of the summit and the city hosting it. He hadn’t been given any specific instructions except to perhaps capture the likeness of some heads of state and the architecture and monuments in Helsinki. When the actual conference would begin the next day, he would attend it, sort of like a photographer would. He wasn’t entirely sure what would become of his work afterwards – perhaps they would be added to conference memos.

Steve did still enjoy drawing, occasionally, but in truth he hadn’t carried a sketchbook with him in a while. Not since he came out of the ice, in fact. He’d find himself doodling on napkins and pieces of paper, but he’d never gotten around restocking his art supplies. 

Armed with a soft pencil and a sketchbook that still carried the scent of new paper, he set out for another walk around town. Glancing at a map, he chose a route different from yesterday’s, and let his feet take him past the central railway station and the National Theatre, which stood right next to the park where the botanic garden was located.

It was morning, and the park was mostly quiet. Cyclists used the alley that ran through the park, but other than that, there were only a few groups of people around. Steve sat down on a bench by the alley and started sketching one of them from afar, a group of young women who had sat down on the grassy slope that formed one corner of the park.

The girls were dressed in the style favored by local kids, in denim overalls or flared corduroy pants and T-shirts. They’d kicked off their shoes; they were smoking; they talked loudly enough that he occasionally caught a shriek of laughter or a weirdly intoned phrase he couldn’t understand. There was something sweetly familiar yet impenetrable about them, and he found himself sketching them all quickly, like birds that could fly away any minute, capturing a hand holding a cigarette there, the curve of a neck here.

Steve was finishing the shading on the last sketch, caught in the simple pleasure of smudging the graphite, as one of the girls stood up and made her way towards him. He had noticed them giving him looks, and he knew it could make people uncomfortable to be drawn unwittingly, but the flow of sketching had gotten him in its hold. _Just one more stroke._ He could always quickly turn his attention to the trees and the glass houses.

”Hello,” he said as neutrally as possible. He also only now realized the implications of an adult man sketching young girls, something he sometimes forgot as he had no intention of ogling. He had even less interest in flirting with women half his age than he had with Natasha.

The girl regarded him with a mix of of teenaged sullenness and tentative interest. ”Hi. Were you drawing us?” She sounded accusatory.

By now Steve had observed that Finns tended to alternate between reserved politeness and straightforwardness, and they would leap from a silence to a question expecting an honest answer without much preceding small talk. Perhaps it was the language barrier.

”I was.” He got up. ”Did it bother you? I’m sorry, you looked so happy talking over there, I didn’t want to interrupt you. Here –,” he handed her the sketchbook, wanting to dispel her suspicion, ”– you can have a look. I just wanted to draw people’s poses. I haven’t done that in a while.”

She looked a little taken aback but took the sketchbook. ”So. You are American,” she said. ”I guessed right.” She looked down at the open page and the drawing of one of her friends.

”It looks like Kati,” she said after a while. ”But her nose isn’t that thin.”

”Oh, I’m sorry,” Steve said with a smile. If he was honest, it wasn’t too great to be criticized for his first drawing attempt in a while, even if it was by a teenager. The girl turned towards her friends, waving the sketchbook at them, and then flipped through the rest.

”Are you an artist?” She didn’t look up at him, instead inspecting the picture of herself holding a cigarette between her fingers, pinched in a way that had curiously reminded Steve of old men sitting on curbs on their lunch breaks back in the 30s. She made a face but he thought she looked pleased all the same.

”No, actually, I’m –” Steve wasn’t sure how to explain himself to someone who clearly didn’t know who he was. ”I came with all the other Americans, for the summit.”

”Okay, so you are a politician?” The girl was skeptical. She handed the sketchbook back to him.

”I’m with the American army,” Steve said, hoping it was vague but satisfying enough. If anything, the girl looked even more suspicious.

”How old are you then?” She produced a roll-up from somewhere in her overalls. ”And do you have any fire, no – light?”

Steve lit her cigarette. ”I’m twenty-eight,” he said after some consideration. He tended to forget these days.

She seemed unfazed, not thanking him. ”You look older. You dress like my father.”

”You are a very critical young woman, you know that?”

At that, the girl suddenly burst out giggling, and took a step back. ”Have a good day,” she said and sprinted back towards her friends, who immediately congregated around her and started whispering, throwing glances in Steve’s direction.

Some of the interactions he’d had with the locals so far had reminded him of his times as Captain America, a manufactured celebrity. The others were like this, awkward encounters that still somehow eased his mind because people had no preconceptions of him beyond his looks, which for the most part didn’t bother him anymore. Americans, as it turned out, weren’t all too beloved here, but at the same time, his nationality alone seemed to fascinate Europeans. One of the interviewers yesterday had seemed inordinately happy to hear he liked motorcycles, and spent a lot of time praising Harley-Davidson.

Glancing at the girls, he could see that they had already lost interest in him and were shouting something at a group of shirtless, sunburnt boys who had appeared at the top of the slope. Deciding this was as good a time as any to find something else to draw, Steve got up and headed towards the botanic garden.

As he was studying asters, aralias and the various small flowers of cultivated plants, Steve let his mind drift back to Bucky again.

James was Bucky, after all. Steve was left with no doubt about that, and now it seemed delusional to have thought otherwise.

Accepting the fact that Bucky was alive, and assuming he genuinely had no memory of Steve – perhaps no memory of his former life at all – the biggest question was _who_. Was it the Red Hydra who had done this, rescuing Bucky in the 40s and – Steve’s head and heart hurt – kept him frozen, just like he was? Poking at his brain so he thought he was someone else? And what of the _why_? Why pick up a half-dead body instead of a volunteer? Why send him here? Did this mean HYDRA knew about them after all?

Then there were the other possibilities: that Bucky – whoever he thought he was now – had no connection to the Red Hydra whatsoever. That whatever happened to him was a series of miraculous coincidences. That he wrote for magazines and newspapers. Steve thought of the company he’d mentioned. Was this AIM something that was involved in the resurrection business?

His head was swirling with possible avenues of investigation, none of which he could pursue without access to SHIELD resources. He would need to talk to Fury, or at least Natasha. If there was the slightest chance that he had uncovered something pertaining to their mission, he was sabotaging it by withholding the information.

He looked at the sketches he’d just done, absentminded, of the purple star-shaped aster; of the spiked, aggressive leaves of the sea holly; of the small, tightly bundled flowers of the heritage carrot.

Once the package was secure, he would tell Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- [The Kaisaniemi Park Botanic Garden is beautiful.](https://www.luomus.fi/en/kaisaniemi-botanic-garden/introduction)
> 
> \- There were cookies. [You can read the memcons.](https://www.fordlibrarymuseum.gov/library/document/0331/1554002.pdf) They are quite fun. For the rest of this chapter, I'm... sorry?


	9. Nightlife

It was Rumlow who called him.

”We’ve got the new bootleg, buddy. Wanna listen with us?” He gave the location of the rendez-vous and hung up without waiting for Steve to reply.

***

They met at a lunch bar that served meager sandwiches and acrid coffee. Natasha got a cheese sandwich and took a ravenous bite. ”Had no time to for lunch,” she said after swallowing and proceeded to wolf down the rest.

Steve and Rumlow had coffee, which was served by an expressionless woman in a checkered apron. They were the only customers.

”Jesus, do they make this stuff out of trees or something,” Rumlow muttered. He didn’t seem especially happy even though the cookie mission had been a success.

The other agents filled Steve in on the basics: the mild heart attack had happened just in the nick of time, Sokolov did have the tape, and Natasha had just about managed to make a copy of it with Stark’s device. ”That thing really is fast,” she said as she picked crumbs off of her fingers. ”Oh, and no one died.”

Relief had flooded Steve when he heard the news, but his attention soon turned to the next day and their next step. They were all going to be in the Finlandia Hall to try to catch Sokolov delivering the cartridge to his contact. This part of the mission was, according to Fury, of secondary interest. It was also imperative they not reveal themselves as SHIELD agents at any point. If push came to shove, it was always advisable to pretend to be CIA.

Steve knew this was the moment he needed to tell Rumlow and Natasha about Bucky. Even if there was no HYDRA connection, he should let them know that he had been compromised. The mission should have been first and foremost on his mind, but all he could think about was meeting Bucky again tonight. He had spent much of the morning, while sketching various flowers and passers-by, thinking of how to broach the subject of possible amnesia and mind-control with him. Would he think Steve was crazy? Would he turn out to be aggressive?

”Steve. Steve?”

Natasha’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. ”Sorry.” He felt his cheeks heat up.

”As I said, we’re all set for tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Steve nodded. ”I’ll get in after 9 am,” he said. ”I can move pretty much freely, and it even makes sense for me to keep an eye on the Soviet team for a while.” 

”Maybe you should offer to sketch the General Secretary,” Natasha said drily. ”How’s that for détente?”

She left them soon for a CIA debriefing. Rumlow had to return to the Embassy shortly to accompany the President for his next meeting, but he hung around waiting for Steve to finish his coffee.

”You been enjoying the local nightlife, Rogers?”

The tone of his voice made Steve’s skin prickle. Could Rumlow see something lingering in him from yesterday? Steve’s skin would have completely healed from the little marks Bucky had left on him, even if he still felt the ghost touch of his fingers and teeth.

”It’s mostly been lunches with reporters,” he muttered into his chipped coffee cup. ”What, you feel like you’re missing out playing babysitter?”

”Rather that than prancing around on a leash.” Rumlow sounded darkly amused. ”Or did you miss it, huh, Mr Truth, Justice and the American Way?”

Steve wasn’t sure where the other agent was going with this. ”What’s your point?”

”No point, Cap. Just wondering how you’ve been treated. Hope you’re not feelin’ lonely.” Rumlow dropped his hand on Steve’s thigh, squeezing hard.

Steve flinched and shot a look around but the lunch lady was gone. ”Rumlow.” He grabbed the other man’s wrist, crunching it a little harder than was probably necessary.

Rumlow let go, shaking his wrist and laughing, a throaty sound that used to get Steve riled up. ”Just teasing you, Rogers. Try to relax, it’s gonna be over soon.”

***

By the time he was supposed to meet Bucky, Steve had managed to work himself up over the evening ahead. He’d excused himself from dinner with Lewis and Kunnas, who didn’t seem to mind. The interpreter was teaching her to pronounce Finnish words, smiling hopelessly as she tried to get the _r_ right.

”Try to say it like you’re forming a ’dee’ at the same time. That way, your tongue –” he launched into a physiological explanation.

”8:30 tomorrow,” Lewis reminded Steve as he was leaving. ”What was that about my tongue again?”

They had agreed to meet at the corner of the US communications center, where Bucky – James, he couldn’t keep up – would file his last news bulletin for the day. Steve arrived a little early, and had time to observe the political aides and journalists exiting the hotel, looking tired and unwashed, even though the summit itself had yet to begin.

Then James strode out of the door, exchanging a few words with his supposed colleagues before he spotted Steve and made a beeline for him. He had his beige jacket on and there was a tiny smudge of ink on his cheekbone. Steve’s fingers itched to rub it off.

”The other guys don’t get why I’d want to interview you of all people,” James said with a grin.

He wasn’t staying at a hotel. “A friend set me up,” he said as they were walking through a park past an old church. “He knew someone here who’s out of town, I got the key to their apartment. It’s small but it’s nice. Just a few blocks from here.”

They made their way through small streets lined with older apartment buildings with decorative facades, following a tramway, past small, dusty bookstores and record shops.

“I’ve liked it here,” James said. “The sea is close-by, and the neighborhood is quite relaxed.” He glanced at Steve. “All things being relative, of course.”

Something tickling settled in Steve’s belly. “So, if I wanted to hold your hand…” He let himself drift off, returning James’ gaze.

“I wouldn’t advise that. But let’s just say you wouldn’t be jailed for thinking about that.” James’ eyes were playful. “Here we are.”

They entered and James led him upstairs through the cool and empty stairway. The apartment, like he’d said, was small: a single room with a tiny kitchenette and an even tinier bathroom. The spare furnishing consisted of a bed and a desk. There were stacks of paper, a pile of books and a dictaphone on the desk. Nothing else would have fit.

“I’d offer you something cold to drink, but I’m afraid there’s no fridge.” James hung his jacket on the hook on the door, and Steve did the same. It was hot here too, the room warmed by the sun all day. James continued undressing, unbuttoning his shirt, and gestured for Steve to sit down on the bed.

“Do you get any writing done here?” Steve could see notes in longhand on the desk, looping carefree letters.

“Some, yeah.” James hung up his shirt and kicked off his shoes. “Frankly, this place heats up like an oven, it makes me feel like my brain’s gonna melt right out of my ears. I like working while I’m walking, anyway. It’s easier just to dictate the article after I’ve got some thoughts down.”

“So you’re just out there walking by the sea and talking to yourself all day?” Steve smiled as James stepped closer.

“Only when I’m not meeting handsome strangers in parks.” James put his right hand lightly on Steve’s shoulder and bent down to kiss him.

Their first kiss was unhurried this time, and Steve let himself soak in the intoxicating presence of the other man. He had come here with the idea of talking first, but the moment felt so sweet and fragile that he hesitated. It was easier to get lost in James’ soft lips.

“You’re overdressed,” James mumbled into the corner of his mouth and dropped to his knees. Steve’s breath caught as he slid his fingers around the top button of his shirt. “May I?”

Steve nodded, earning another kiss. James worked on the buttons slowly, kissing him after each one until he could push the shirt off Steve’s shoulders. “On the bed?”

Steve kicked off his own shoes and laid down, making as much room as possible. The bed was barely wide enough to fit them both, and it forced them to slot together face to face, thigh between thigh. It was another reminder of a time gone by.

They kept kissing, but it was less heated than the night before. James ran his good hand up and down his arm with a slow, gentle rhythm. He tasted both familiar and new, of mints and something elusive Steve associated with the city air, a mix of roasting coffee and hot metal, perhaps. Bucky used to taste different: a hint of their cheap soap and tobacco. _Bucky._ If only he could say his name out loud.

Steve forced himself to think of the bigger picture and was about to open his mouth when Bucky pulled back himself.

“I – I haven’t been entirely truthful with you,” he said carefully. “When you said I looked like your friend, it wasn’t just you. I mean, I remember you, too. Not just Captain America.”

Steve’s heart lurched. He pushed a lock of hair from Bucky’s eyes and didn’t resist the urge to run his thumb along his ear, but let him speak.

”It’s hard to explain.” Bucky sighed and closed his eyes. Steve was probably being distracting but he couldn’t stop touching, letting his thumb sweep over the spot of ink.

”It’s just these flashes,” Bucky continued. ”But they feel like real memories, not pictures or something I could have heard or read about. I’m sure.” He opened his eyes again and studied Steve’s face.

“’Cause I remember how you feel. How it feels to kiss you.” He leaned forward so he could do just that. ”And how when I do this,” he moved his mouth so he could kiss the spot just below Steve’s ear. ”You do –” Steve let out a sound, ”– that.”

”So the question is,” Bucky returned to nip at his mouth, ”why?” 

Steve felt like his lips were about to tremble. Here he was, with all the evidence he needed, with everything he’d hopelessly longed for for the last two years.

“Bu–” He drew in a sharp breath. “Are you sure you don’t remember any more than that?” He brushed Bucky’s cheek with his thumb again. “Because I saw –” He thought of the photograph. What was the explanation for that?

“Would you believe me if I said I really used to know you?” he finally said. “That you’ve just – forgotten.”

Bucky looked confused. “You mean – we met somewhere before and I just, what, was so stoned I can’t remember I slept with you?” He smiled, rubbing circles just above Steve’s collarbone. “That seems unlikely.”

“No, that’s not –” Steve gasped as Bucky pressed his thigh up, rubbing against his rapidly hardening dick. “Just believe me when I say I remember us together,” he whispered a little desperately. “And that you don’t makes me think I’m –” Another gasp, swallowed by Bucky’s hungry mouth. He couldn’t help but rock against Bucky.

“Can we talk about this later?” Bucky’s quiet voice sounded desperate, too. He slid his hand down between them and tugged Steve’s undershirt out of his pants. If Steve wanted to discuss anything coherently he needed to do it now.

“Sure.” Steve squeezed his eyes shut. The sensation of Bucky’s warm right hand sliding up his abdomen was almost too much to handle. His erection had filled up and he was desperate to get his own hands on bare skin, but with Bucky’s arm between them it was awkward. “Wait –” he pulled back just a fraction, trying to reach for the hem of his undershirt himself.

Bucky let go and sat up, pulling off his own shirt. He moved his left arm confidently but slowly: the fingers didn’t move, but the range of movement in the shoulder looked normal. When he was done, he reached for Steve’s belt. “Off,” he said, soft but impatient. “I wanna see you. All of you.”

Steve scrambled to get out of his pants, throwing them carelessly off the bed with the belt. He then sat up and reached for Bucky’s waist, encouraging him to go up to his knees so he could pop open the button on his pants and tug the zipper down. Bucky’s erection was a rock-hard line under his palm as he rubbed it through the fabric.

Bucky looked down at him with such adoration that it made Steve’s heart skip a beat. He suddenly couldn’t stand all the layers between them and roughly pulled the pants down his hips, planting a kiss on Bucky’s hipbone as he did so. He felt greedy, parched for any contact, lips tingling in anticipation.

When Bucky was fully undressed, Steve pulled him back on the bed and he knelt in front of Steve again. Steve wet his lips. ”Can I?” he looked up, holding Bucky’s gaze.

As Bucky nodded, he bent down, taking his cock gently by the base and sliding it slowly past his lips. The taste made a shiver go down his spine and he pulled Bucky closer until he was buried to the hilt.

”Oh, Steve –”

The way Bucky said his name made Steve’s blood burn, and he swallowed frantically so the head of his cock hit the back of his throat. Bucky gasped and his hips thrust up. It made Steve’s eyes water but he held onto his hips, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard.

”Oh, fuck.” Bucky was breathless. ”Christ –”

Steve slackened his mouth, letting Bucky’s cock slip out almost entirely, and then chased it back again, keeping a firm hold, thumbs digging into the hollows of Bucky’s hips.

It had been years, and having his mouth on Bucky again was dizzying. He had had dreams of this moment. The weight on his tongue, the scent in his nose, the little coarse hairs rubbing against his lips as he went down all the way – it hurt how much he’d missed this.

Steve didn’t know what to focus on, wanting to both swallow Bucky down and keep him in forever, fill his mouth to the brim, and pull back and suck at the tip, savor the taste and the little sounds he knew Bucky would make. He ended up somewhere in between, messily alternating between licking up the shaft and pulling back the foreskin to lap at the slit, and guiding Bucky all the way back in, encouraging him to rock into his mouth until he was nearly choking and could feel fingers tighten in his hair. It was far from the best blowjob he had given but it was impossible to concentrate when he selfishly wanted everything, Bucky’s heat and taste and weight filling up his senses.

”Steve, oh, fuck, stop.” Bucky moaned, gently pushing him back. ”You’ll make me come.”

Steve looked up into his eyes, which were dark and heated. ”That’s the idea, isn’t it?” He licked his lips slowly, thrilling at the way Bucky’s heavy gaze followed the movement of his tongue. His own dick twitched, still caged in his underwear.

”Not yet,” Bucky breathed out. ”Not while you’re still not naked.” He pushed Steve back on the bed, and Steve let him straddle him, groaning as the move put pressure on his dick. Bucky touched him through the thin fabric, which had soaked through where Steve’s cockhead was trapped.

”I remember this too,” he whispered. ”How you get all slick for me.” He closed his eyes for a second, a confused look passing over his face. Steve wanted to say something but then Bucky squeezed him and it turned into a moan which he bit off. They couldn’t make noise, no matter the neighborhood.

Bucky kept stroking him through the cloth, watching intently as Steve’s cock leaked more and more. He’d always been easy that way, but the serum had enhanced that too. They’d only had sex once after he changed – if Bucky could even remember that time – and it was both exciting and a little embarrassing to see Bucky so transfixed, like he really was seeing Steve for the first time.

”Oh –” Steve gasped as Bucky squeezed him just below the head, making him squirt so much it burst through the fabric, glistening.

”Such a mess,” Bucky murmured. ”Let’s get you out of these.” They pulled Steve’s underwear off together, and then, finally, after what felt like forever, they were together head to toe, skin slick and cocks sliding against one another.

Their mouths connected and Steve bucked up uncontrollably, chasing the perfect angle so they could grind together, drawing one knee up for better access. Bucky leaned on his left arm and reached down with his right hand to guide them side by side. He licked into Steve’s mouth and pushed his hips down, dick sliding against Steve’s, delicious and electric.

”Steve,” he murmured against his mouth. ”You remember this, too?”

Steve’s mind stuttered, thoughts scattered all over. ”Yes,” he said, inadequate and desperate. ”Do you – fuck –,” he crashed his mouth up against Bucky’s again to keep himself from making even more noise as the other man ground down and it put pressure on Steve’s whole length. ”Do you wanna, ah.”

Steve wondered if Bucky still liked it the way they used to do it. The way he touched Steve was part-old, part-new; the way they still fit together, like they’d never been apart, had Steve reeling, but there was a strangeness to this, too, and he wasn’t sure what to ask for.

”Let me turn around,” he said, voice hoarse. Bucky let him maneuver them both, clumsy on the small bed, until Steve managed to roll over to face the wall. He reached blindly back and Bucky pressed swiftly against him. He seemed to get idea and gently pushed Steve’s leg up, just enough that he could slide his cock, slick with Steve’s precome and their sweat, between Steve’s legs.

His cock brushed against Steve’s balls, heavy and hot. It made Steve gasp and push back so that Bucky’s cock slid all the way between his thighs, which he clamped tightly together, drawing an answering sound from Bucky.

Bucky mouthed at the back of his neck and wrapped his right arm around Steve’s waist. ”I think I’ve missed this,” he said quietly, rocking up experimentally. Steve pressed his legs together harder and was rewarded with a hiss and a little bite at the side of his neck, a sting which Bucky immediately soothed with a kiss as he started a slow rhythm.

Steve closed his eyes and let Bucky take the lead, his breath coming out in little puffs against his neck. They hadn’t used any lubricant, but with his precome it didn’t matter; he kept spurting out more as Bucky’s dick dragged against his on every push and pull between his thighs. His arm around Steve was a vise, feeling just as strong as before when he outweighed Steve by thirty pounds. It felt comforting, it felt right: it felt like home.

”Steve.” Bucky breathed his name hotly into his ear, making him shiver. Steve felt Bucky’s hand move down and reach for his cock.

”Ah, fuck –” Steve bit into his tongue at the direct pressure around his shaft. He wasn’t sure how Bucky could even concentrate on two things at once, lost as he was in the sensations himself. Bucky gripped him tight, practically holding him in place so he could both grind up between Steve’s thighs and give him something to fuck into. Steve rocked into his fist, feeling his release already building.

”Come on, let go,” Bucky whispered and gently bit at his earlobe, keeping up the undulation of his hips. ”I wanna see you come.”

Steve’s breath hitched. He had always secretly liked it when Bucky told him what to do, in the end, after much protesting. He hadn’t felt like pushing back against orders in bed for a while now, and with that instinct gone, he complied helplessly, hips speeding up. He worried Bucky was denied his own pleasure as he couldn’t keep his legs together tight anymore, but he couldn’t help it when Bucky’s hand was so slick and hard and hot around him.

”Oh, Bucky –”

Steve’s hips stuttered, once, twice more and then he was coming, spurting an indecent amount of come over Bucky’s fingers. It felt like he released even more than usual, and Bucky only loosened his fist so he could keep rocking into it, his whole face and chest blushing as he kept coming and dripping all over.

He could feel more than hear Bucky’s gasps. ”Oh Christ, Steve, you,” he panted. Bucky’s hips snapped against his backside, and then he was coming, too, come spreading between Steve’s legs to mingle with his.

They breathed hard in silence for a while. Bucky let his hand rest on Steve’s hip. A slow warmth, the kind that had nothing to do with temperature, spread throughout Steve, and he took Bucky’s hand and brought it up to kiss his messy knuckles one by one. Bucky nosed at the back of his neck.

Light-headed, Steve twisted around so that he could capture Bucky’s mouth in a kiss.

”We made a mess,” he said, feigning regret but unable to keep the smile from his face. ”You’ll have to wash the sheets.”

”Doesn’t matter.” Bucky smiled back at him, dazed and beautiful. ”More than worth it.”

They traded more languid touches and lazy kisses after that, and Steve was filled with the desire not to do anything but this, for them to cocoon themselves in this moment forever, in a heated apartment in the middle of nowhere, content at having found each other against impossible odds.

 _If not forever, just for tonight._ Reality would set in soon enough.


	10. White Picket Fence

Steve woke up hot and sticky but well-rested.

He took a minute to enjoy the feeling: the simple pleasure of a full night of sleep.

Bucky was still pressed tight against him, back to his chest. Steve had curled around him when they’d finally surrendered to sleep, and the crowded bed should have been too uncomfortable to sleep in, but he was out the second he closed his eyes.

Steve felt like he could get lost in the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest under his arm. It was like he was still drunk on his best friend’s skin and touch. They had fucked a second time, slow and trying to be quiet in the slowly darkening room. It was softer than they used to be, more careful somehow, which was a little ironic given Steve’s physique. He felt a little shiver of anticipation go through him at the thought of getting to wake up next to Bucky from now on, all the things they would get to do together again.

Steve shook his head at himself. Here he was, dreaming up a house and a white picket fence already.

They would need to address the apparent amnesia first, anyway. Steve was determined to cure Bucky, to take him back home and make him well again. He knew Stark was working on something called BARF – he forgot what it stood for – that could recover memories, meant to help shell-shocked soldiers. If that didn’t work, he’d find something else. Convince Stark to do better. Hound Fury for his contacts. Whatever it took to help Bucky.

And if there was something nefarious in play here, he would take on whatever and whoever was involved.

As loathe as he was to get out of bed, Steve had to leave for the first day of the summit and his job as a sketch artist. He detangled himself from Bucky, kissing him chastely on the cheek. Bucky mumbled something in his sleep but didn’t stir. He’d always been a heavy sleeper.

After Steve had freshened up as best as he could and got dressed, he took one of Bucky’s notepads and left him a note saying he wanted to see him again today. _It’s very important._ He underlined the words.

Done with the note, he couldn’t help but pick up a pencil and turn a new leaf. He quickly sketched Bucky sleeping: the shadow of his eyelashes, his light stubble, the hair that stuck to his cheek.

Feeling a little silly but leaving the sketch next to the note, Steve let himself out of the apartment. The sun was up, and it looked like a beautiful day.

***

”Head in the game, soldier.” Lewis poked him in the side as they approached the doors. ”Look like you care about world peace like your sweet ol’ grandma.”

”Sorry,” Steve said. His mind had been elsewhere for a moment again. ”I do care,” he added. He wasn’t sure if he cared about being photographed entering the Finlandia Hall, but he couldn’t deny sensing the weight of the occasion. He’d watched the President march in through the doors with his security in tow, Rumlow among them, almost regal in the middle of European leaders.

The foyer was big but filled with men in suits, gathered in groups chatting and patting each other on the back. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood. Journalists were dragging their equipment through the crowd, and harassed-looking aides were running here and there, tugging at the sleeves of politicians like parents drawing their reluctant toddlers away from their friends.

”Alright, so the one-on-one talks are going to take up all of the day today. There’s no re-entry for security reasons, so once you leave there’s no coming back.” Lewis handed him a file with some schedules. ”My suggestion is you stay around until lunch, draw some of this architectural beauty. Be available to the press, tell them why you’re here. Oh, and when talking to the Finns make sure they know how impressive this building is. They are very, very attached to it.” She sighed. ”If I have to hear about the Carrara marble one more time…”

Lewis dashed off to check in with the US reporters on the next floor, and left Steve to wander the foyer. At first he felt a little self-conscious, but yet again, after a few looks, not many people paid him attention. Technically, he had the same access as the press, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to pull politicians aside for a quick sketch as if for a photograph.

It was true that the modernist building was architecturally unique, all wide open spaces and calm surfaces of natural whites and grays. Light streamed in through white curtains on high windows, and the foyer was sparsely decorated with living young trees and vines. There was a café on the first floor, and Steve drifted towards it. It turned out to be a good spot for observing both the outside and the inside. The large windows gave a view of the main street with the National Museum on the other side, and as the morning went by, various groups of people visited the café, often in a hurry.

Steve nursed a cup of coffee and furtively sketched politicians immersed in conversation, waitresses pushing trolleys and reporters rushing in to pick up piles of croissants and sandwiches. Not being allowed outside seemed to take its toll: as the room temperature got higher and higher, the press came in in less and less clothing, most abandoning their suits for T-shirts and wiping their faces with sweaty handkerchiefs. 

Steve couldn’t help but wonder if he’d spot Bucky in the crowd, but he didn’t catch a glimpse of him.

After a few hours, deciding he had fulfilled the requirements for his cover job, he left the café to find Natasha and the Russians. They had agreed on watching Sokolov in turns.

The space reserved for the USSR delegates was one of the bigger conference rooms, with an adjacent room again prepared for the General Secretary’s personal medical team.

”Sokolov is still in there,” Natasha informed him quietly. Steve had sat down next to her on a bench in the guise of sketching her. She was an aide to the Secretary of State after all.

”Do you think he’ll leave the drop for tomorrow?” Steve was drawing her Cupid’s bow, a deep beautiful dip. ”Don’t move.”

”It will be even busier tomorrow.” Natasha sounded amused. ”My hunch is he’ll do it today. They would want to get it done as soon as possible.”

Steve spent a little more time trying to capture her expressive mouth, not entirely happy with the results.

”Can I see?” she asked when he was finished. He handed her the sketch, and she looked surprised but pleased, an unusually soft smile spreading on her face. ”Wow. That’s…” She looked at Steve with something like affection, but there was also something guarded in her eyes. ”Thank you.”

”No problem.” Steve wondered if he could ask to draw her again some time. Maybe even paint her.

She stood up, flashing a more familiar, lopsided smile. ”Alright, I’m gonna go have a slice of blueberry pie now, I hear it’s great.”

***

The hot building grew sleepy and airless as the day went on. Some conference attendees were following the journalists’ lead and disrobing discreetly. Steve was pretty sure he saw the Swedish prime minister take off his shoes. He wished he could have done the same. It was getting frustrating waiting around in the heat for something that might not happen, when he could have been outside figuring out what to do with Bucky.

Steve had almost resigned himself to the fact that Sokolov would not make a move when it happened. Rumlow was on duty, and Steve had just thought to head upstairs to see the view from there, when Natasha approached him quickly through the foyer. She tried to be conspicuous but looked agitated, ducking a group of Germans.

”I believe he’s headed to the basement floor,” Natasha half-whispered, forcing a smile. “I saw Rumlow going after him alone, he didn’t see me. He’s –”

”Which way?” Steve said tightly. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

”That stairway, but –”

Steve headed for the unremarkable door that she had pointed out.

”Steve, there’s –” Natasha hissed at him, but he didn’t wait for her to follow, taking the stairs down swiftly.

The hallway in the basement was lined with doors. Rumlow was nowhere to be seen. He should only have tailed Sokolov and stayed out of his sight but he must have gone after the HYDRA agent to catch him and his contact red-handed.

Steve cursed, wondering why Rumlow would do something that stupid and why he would ditch protocol by not alerting him or Natasha. Now there was no option but to engage Sokolov and take him and the other agent down.

He went down the hallway, concentrating on listening as he went by. There was a repetitive clunking sound which came from the offset printers that were used to print conference memos as soon as they were typed up. It was clever to meet here, as the sound would drown out conversation for anyone without supersoldier hearing. As he reached the door labeled JÄTEHUONE, he picked up voices coming through the heavily padded door. He recognized Rumlow, shouting something, and ripped the door open.

It was the waste disposal room, filled with giant plastic containers and compactors. There was no one in the room except for Sokolov and Rumlow, who was pointing his gun at the Russian. So he had blown their cover before the unknown contact even showed up. Or had Sokolov already known about them and Rumlow had only acted accordingly?

They both turned when they heard Steve enter the room, but Sokolov recovered quickly and made a move towards Rumlow, going for his gun.

Steve stepped in and tackled the Russian easily, dragging him off Rumlow and forcing him on his knees. ”Rumlow –” he barked, ”get his gun.” He tightened his arm around Sokolov’s neck.

”Ah – agent Rogers –” Sokolov struggled to say something, but Rumlow backhanded him hard as he crouched down and took the gun. He stepped back and looked down at Steve and Sokolov, panting and furious.

”Son of a bitch,” he muttered. A muscle twitched in his jaw and it looked like he wanted to put a bullet in Sokolov.

”Rumlow,” Steve said in warning. He knew how impulsive Rumlow could be. He’d never shot an unarmed man on duty and Steve wanted to believe he wouldn’t start now, but there was something feral in his eyes, as if he had something personal against Sokolov.

Rumlow looked Steve straight in the eye. ”Well, Cap –”

That was the moment Natasha burst in, immediately rushing over to Rumlow’s side.

Then, so quickly that even Steve couldn’t follow her movements, she kicked Rumlow full force in the abdomen and as he fell on his knees struck him on the back of his neck, knocking him out. Sokolov’s gun fell from his hands and was left spinning on the floor.

Breathing hard, Natasha turned to Steve.

”Steve. Let him go.”

Steve stared. Natasha had her hand on her hip and her eyes locked on him.

”What? Nat –”

Sokolov kicked his legs and Steve tightened his grip, ignoring the man’s grunt of pain.

”Rogers. Let. Go.” Her hand landed on her gun and before Steve could react she had drawn her revolver from its holster and had him at gunpoint. ”Please. There’s no time.”

Sokolov made another pitiful sound in Steve’s hold, but then Natasha said something in Russian to him and he seemed to relax a little.

Steve’s head was spinning. ”Wait, Natasha, what the –”

His words were cut short by the door slamming open again, complaining in its hinges.

It was Bucky, clad in black combat gear except for his left arm, which was all gleaming metal plates and gears. He eyed the room coldly until he saw Steve.

And then he growled and attacked.


	11. Die Another Day

Bucky’s weight hit Steve like a freight train.

Steve barely had time to let go of Sokolov. The man scrambled away, coughing.

Then he was on his back. It was surprise more than anything that let Bucky knock him right down. He straddled Steve, trapping him with his body, and wrapped his metal fingers around Steve’s throat, not in warning but with clear intent. There was a crunch as he tightened his hold and Steve felt his airflow cut off.

Pinned for a few seconds, Steve finally gathered enough wherewithal to fight back. He kicked up, forcing Bucky to protect his side and let go of Steve’s throat.

From the way Bucky resisted, Steve registered he must have matched Steve’s brute strength. A sense-memory of last night invaded his mind, the moment he’d let go, mindless of his serum-born strength, Bucky holding him down easily.

Still gasping for air, Steve managed to throw Bucky off and get up, throwing himself right back at him. He hit Bucky in his armored chest with his shoulder and pain shot down his arm. They hit the floor again in an ungraceful tussle.

Steve’s mind, usually clear in combat, was muddied with warring thoughts. He needed to take his attacker down but he couldn’t stand the thought of hurting him. Bucky though was clearly intent on knocking him out without finesse, whatever it took, and had Steve on his back again. He got a hold of Steve by his hair, yanked his head back roughly and landed a blow with his metal fist right across his face.

Steve’s ears rang. His grip on Bucky’s suit faltered, and he could feel more than taste blood fill the back of his throat. There went his nose again.

He growled in turn, spat his blood on Bucky’s face and struggled to flip them around. If he just could get a better hold, maybe –

A grunt escaped Bucky’s mouth. He collapsed on Steve.

Natasha stood there, panting. She had kicked Bucky in the back of his neck, full force.

”Get up, Rogers.” She grabbed Bucky by the shoulders, dragging him off Steve with effort.

Steve got up and wiped blood off his face. He saw Bucky wasn’t fully out of it, and by the time Steve moved again he’d got up too and grabbed Natasha.

She was no match for him without the element of surprise, and Bucky simply flung her towards the nearest trash compactor. Steve heard her pained grunt as she collided with it.

It was a brief moment but enough for Steve to charge again. He got Bucky in a headlock this time. Bucky breathed hard under his hold. Blood trickled out of his ear, and fear flashed through Steve’s mind. He pushed it down, tightened his hold and cut off Bucky’s air in turn. Natasha had landed a hard enough blow that he resisted only weakly, reaching back to try to grab Steve.

Sokolov had got up, too. He’d grabbed his gun from the floor and approached.

”Stand down, Soldier,” he said clearly in Russian and pointed the gun at Bucky. ”Agent Rogers,” he barked. ”Knock him out.”

Steve swallowed. The blood was clogging his throat. He didn’t want to do it but he followed the order. Bucky became a dead weight in his arms. Steve thought he would worry about Sokolov later but as he got up he saw the man put his gun down.

Natasha had recovered too.

”Rogers –” she inclined her head toward the trash compactor. ”Get him here!”

Steve dragged Bucky towards the compactor, feeling him start to stir already. He was heavy, impossible to move had it not been for Steve’s strength. When he reached the machine and pushed Bucky up against it, Bucky shook his head slowly, already coming to.

Steve held Bucky’s weight against the side of the compactor with his own body and grabbed his metal arm. Steve thrust the rigid metal wrist towards the opening in the side of the compactor. Natasha had located the controls and pulled a lever. The machine came to life with a screeching sound. The noise must have woken Bucky up for good, as he suddenly tensed under Steve. He had Bucky held upright practically with one arm only, and in a second he would shake him off. Steve shoved Bucky’s hand in desperately just as the metal fingers curled into a fist. ”Nat, now –”

She hit the red button and there was a heavy thump.

Steve let go of Bucky and stumbled back. Bucky got to his feet, but when he tried to fling himself towards Steve again, his movement was halted. The compactor’s crushing plate had come down on his wrist, and he let out a growl of frustration.

”You think it’ll hold?” Natasha asked, stepping back to join Steve a safe distance from their opponent. Steve felt out of breath watching Bucky – whichever version of Bucky this was – try to free his hand from the compactor’s maw.

”Hopefully long enough.” Sokolov spoke. He had a dry voice and a mild Russian accent. Steve glanced at him sharply. He had holstered his gun and was standing close to them, pose relaxed.

”Steve,” Natasha said pointedly. ”This is Agent Ivanov. Of SHIELD.”

Steve felt like he should have been surprised, but he didn’t have the energy for it. He just shook his head and turned his attention back to Bucky, who looked like a trapped animal.

”Bucky,” he said desperately and took a small step closer. ”Buck, hey –”

Bucky closed his eyes, shaking his head. ”Don’t,” he muttered. His lips and jaw were splattered with Steve’s blood. ”That’s not…” He grunted, trying to pull his arm free with force again. There was a sound of metal on metal, shrill and loud.

Steve swallowed, mouth sticky. ”That’s your name. Bucky. And you’re my friend.” He hesitated before taking another step. It brought him close enough that Bucky could reach him with his fingertips if nothing else.

Bucky didn’t, though. He seemed to draw into himself, giving up and slumping against the compactor, left arm at an uncomfortable angle. ”Steve,” he muttered.

Steve’s heart ached. He knew Bucky knew him. He could hear it in the way he said his name, just like he had only last night. He would just need to take that last step –

”Rogers.” Natasha’s voice was tight. ”That’s enough.”

Ivanov said a few words in Russian, something Steve didn’t catch. Bucky’s gaze flipped back to him, and he struggled to get free again. Steve could see the metal of the plate start to bend as Bucky put all of his weight into it. It looked like he was just about to rip through the softer metal as Ivanov continued speaking, a list of words, some of which Steve understood. _Freight train._

Then, Ivanov fell silent and Bucky stopped struggling at once. His eyes seemed to glaze over and he came to stand at parade rest, except for the arm still held in the compactor.

Ivanov sighed. ”I was hoping that would work.”

”What was that?” Steve demanded. As bad as it had been to see Bucky attack like a wild animal, seeing him react like this sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine.

”HYDRA’s brainwashing technique,” Ivanov said and looked at Steve. ”I have been monitoring them in deep cover for a while now. Part of my mission is – was, I suppose – to secure the asset HYDRA calls –” he nodded towards Bucky’s pliant body, ”– The Winter Soldier.”

”’Asset’?” Steve felt an unfamiliar dizziness come over him. In the back of his mind, a picture was starting to form, but he had to fight the urge to just take Bucky with him and run, run until no agency or government or madman could lay a hand on him again.

”It’s over now, Steve.” Natasha had come to stand next to him. ”We’ve got the mole,” she glanced at Rumlow’s prone form on the floor, wrists and ankles tied up. ”And we’ve got Barnes.”

Steve didn’t turn to look at her, but watched as Ivanov picked up his doctor’s bag, which had apparently been flung across the room before the fighting started. It really held medical supplies instead of any secret cartridges, with several vials and syringes among them. He quickly picked up one of each and filled the syringe with clear liquid.

”Now, wait –” Steve realized what was going to happen.

”It’s alright,” Ivanov said with a slight smile. ”It’s a tranquilizer. We don’t want to hurt Barnes.”

A sick feeling filled Steve’s stomach. He thought, paranoid, that this could be a HYDRA plan after all, even if he thought he knew Natasha –

”Steve, breathe.” She’d put her hand on his arm. ”We’re going to take him with us. He’ll get better. But he’s going to resist. The activation key only works so long.”

Steve left out a slow breath through his swollen nose. He wanted to ask a hundred questions of her, but he knew they could go through everything later. For now, the mission came first.

”Alright,” he said, as if his permission was needed, and watched as Ivanov closed in on Bucky carefully, palms up.

”Soldier,” he said slowly. ”I am going to give you your medicine.”

Steve watched as Bucky instantly bent his head and let Ivanov sink the needle into the side of his neck.

***

After they were done securing their captives – it didn’t escape Steve that Rumlow and Bucky were handcuffed in awfully similar ways – Natasha contacted the CIA agents who were assigned to assist SHIELD on this mission, and they effectively dispatched both Rumlow and Bucky out of the building through the service tunnel.

The conference went on upstairs, and Ivanov and Steve were left to return back up alone after Natasha was gone with the CIA.

”How long have you been undercover?” Steve asked just to say something, as they quickly tidied up the room and themselves. Fortunately, Bucky hadn’t had time to tear the trash compactor apart.

”Long enough,” Ivanov said wryly. He had the worn face of an aged man but he moved with energy and efficiency. ”Ever since the Director started to suspect there was a mole in the ranks. It took months to even narrow down the suspects.”

”So, you weren’t entirely sure it was Rumlow?” Steve was starting to mentally catalogue his trysts with Rumlow, feeling even worse. Had everyone else known? Why wasn’t he part of the investigation? Perhaps he had been. Maybe something Rumlow had said, or done, when they were alone had been useful.

”At this point, we were almost certain.” Ivanov finished with his side of the room and turned to look at Steve. ”Ah. Your nose.”

Steve took a moment to realize his nose was still broken. He’d pushed the quiet ebb and flow of pain out of his mind out of habit, but it returned as Ivanov beckoned him over. Steve was used to setting his own bones but let the Russian agent deal with his nose, which set into place with a satisfying crunch.

”We just needed the right situation to get him,” Ivanov continued as he held Steve’s jaw lightly in place and cleaned him up. Steve could already feel the warm, sweet sensation of bone and cartilage starting to mend itself. ”I’ve been working to build up trust and connections, but we were getting desperate. The summit was very… fortunate for us.” He observed Steve’s face for a moment. ”There. I think you can get out of the building without causing more than mild alarm.”

Steve thanked him curtly and straightened out his clothes. There were dots of blood on his jacket, but the fabric was dark enough that it could pass for any other stain from afar. He had lost his sketchbook somewhere.

”And now?”

Ivanov’s thin lips formed a quirked smile again. ”I go back up, make sure the Secretary remains in good health, and return to Moscow. Report that the mission was a failure. Live to die another day.”

Steve couldn’t imagine living undercover for weeks on end, not to mention years.

Ivanov let his gaze sweep over the room one more time and then opened the door into the hallway which was empty except for the sound of the printers.

”Shall we, _Kapitan_?”

***

Once his hotel door was closed, Steve wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and stay there for days. Or alternately, call up Fury, discretion be damned, and shout at him for an hour.

Neither option on the table, Steve settled on mechanically hanging up his clothes, cleaning himself up and starting to devise a mission report. It would be quite a debriefing if he wanted to be truthful.

The rest of the day had gone by in a daze. After returning upstairs, Steve found Lewis and excused himself for the rest of the day.

”Man, what happened there?” She gestured at his nose, which was bruised, if conspicuously.

”I, uh, it’s embarrassing really.” Steve knew he was a terrible liar, so he usually tried to do it by generous omission. ”I wandered downstairs to see the press work, you know they have the printers there, and…” He half-shrugged. ”They have these levers, I guess, and I shoved my face into one of them. It’ll heal quick but I should probably let it be elsewhere.”

Lewis looked a little more amused than was polite. ”Well, it happens to the best of us.” She patted him on the arm. ”Go ahead. Frankly, I think you’re not needed here anymore. Take tomorrow off too. Everyone’s just here for the signing anyway.” She gave him a smile before leaving him by the security guarding the exits.

It only struck Steve when he was outside walking past the rows of black cars that he couldn’t be sure who Lewis worked for, either.

He spent an hour wandering around, deciding to head for a part of the city he hadn’t visited. He crossed the small stone bridge, inexplicably christened the Long Bridge, that connected the downtown to a district of old brick housing and what looked like new residential buildings under construction. It looked like any brutally futuristic concrete jungle: the first gray high-rises punctured the sky amid tall cranes, out of place against the untouched skyline. Further along the serpentine shoreline there was a giant mound of coal, an open-air storage for the power plant next to it.

Even without a map, it was easy to find a route back to his hotel after a walk around. Steve skipped visiting the marketplace and headed to the small harbor. It was filled with fishing boats, and the sunny day had encouraged people to go for a swim, even though the murky water looked uninviting. Steve dodged groups of loud teenagers carrying plastic bags clinking with bottles, and kids running around with dogs, one of whom sprinted up to him with a stick in its jaws and a hopeful glint in its eye. He took pity on the animal and flung the stick carefully towards a grassy patch. The shaggy dog made a sound almost like a squeal and ran off to fetch the stick and then up to the next human it could find.

Eventually, the path that ran along the shore took him west and back to his earlier running track. Feeling a little more clear-headed, Steve decided to head back to his room and sort out his luggage for tomorrow.

After a few hours, there was a knock on the door. Steve knew who it was, and didn’t bother to get fully dressed, just pulled on his trousers and an undershirt.

”Care for a drink?”

Natasha held up a bottle of something that was probably vodka. Steve stared at the label, a tranquil countryside landscape, and opened the door to let her in.

Natasha acted with her usual air of ownership of his space, kicking off her heels and sitting down on the bed. She didn’t say anything glib, though, and Steve thought she looked nervous.

Silently, he retrieved two glasses from the table in a corner and sat down next to Natasha, who poured them drinks.

”Do you know where… Barnes is held?” Steve asked lightly before taking a sip. It tasted sweeter than vodka, but had a bite to it.

”He’s with our CIA liaisons for now.” Natasha did the same, leaving red lipstick on her glass. Her hair was a little frizzed and up close Steve could see she hadn’t bothered to fix up her mascara. ”Under the best medical care. He’ll be transported back to the US tomorrow, and we’ll take it from there.”

”Who’s ’we’?” Steve asked a little more sharply than he had intended.

”SHIELD.” Natasha looked him in the eye. ”You know we are going to help him. We’re not the bad guys here, Steve.”

”I’d like to believe that.” Steve downed the rest of the drink, wishing once again it had an effect on him beyond a quick burn in his throat. ”So, were we really sent here to eliminate a threat? What about Rumlow?”

Natasha ran her thumb slowly along the rim of her glass, eyes not leaving Steve’s face. He usually thought she did that to unnerve others, but now it looked like she was really gauging his reactions.

”The original mission was to catch the HYDRA agent that had infiltrated SHIELD. Agent Ivanov and I would have been the only personnel on the ground. But then –” Natasha shrugged with one shoulder, ” – Ivanov reported that they were going to send The Soldier as backup for him.”

So, they’d needed him for backup as well, a supersoldier against another? Steve let Natasha continue.

”SHIELD has been trying to catch The Winter Soldier for years. He’s been deployed on numerous occasions over the years, on American and foreign soil. It was believed he was Soviet in origin, a result of some project, but his identity remained secret.”

”Until now?” Steve needed to know.

Natasha looked troubled. ”When SHIELD found out, Fury chose to use that information as he –”

”Did you know?” He cut her off bluntly. He didn’t want to take his anger out on her but she was here, the only representative of Fury’s machinations. ”Know that it was Barnes?” _And know what he meant to me?_

Steve had never discussed Bucky with anyone, but he knew he was listed in his files, important even if no one knew quite how. Natasha must have figured it out.

She held her breath for a while, then exhaled slowly like she was considering something.

”Yes. I knew enough about The Soldier, to the extent that Fury thought I needed to know. And back when I worked for the Soviets, there were stories about him – or her, no one was sure.” Natasha took a sip and considered the glass in her hands. ”He hasn’t surfaced often, but he’s been memorable.”

Steve tried not to think about all the things HYDRA could have used Bucky for.

”I don’t know where the intel came from that finally linked him to Barnes, or how long Fury has known, but I was told about it at the last minute as I was informed that you were included in a separate mission. Not as an agent, but as…” she trailed off.

”Bait?”

”A resource,” she said firmly. ”You are the only one with a personal connection to Barnes. If there was any chance it would… distract him, SHIELD needed to use that. As for Rumlow,” she said tightly, ”you know you were compromised.”

It was such a clean word for being judged emotionally unstable for where he wanted to stick his dick. Steve knew, of course, that as an intelligence agent he had joined up to be used any way that his superiors saw fit. It was often necessary for the job not to let a single operative in on non-essential information. It still hurt to be duped, doubly so, and he didn’t understand why.

”Why wouldn’t Fury come to me with the information about Bucky to begin with? I could have performed the job just as well – better, if I had known.”

”Could you?” Natasha asked, tension replaced with soft enquiry in her voice. ”The first thing you did when you saw him was ask him on out on a date.” So she had tailed him.

”Really ask yourself: if you had heard that Barnes was alive, say, six months ago, would you have waited? Or if you’d heard it right before the mission, would you have played ball with us on getting Rumlow first? As harsh as it is, Barnes was never a priority.”

Steve couldn’t deny it. Bucky was his blind spot, so big that he ceased to see anything else around. Even now, the fact that he wasn’t beside Bucky, knowing for sure he was being treated right, made something inside him ache.

Suddenly he felt like a deflated balloon. It all made sense, in the horrible way the world that SHIELD and HYDRA and Fury inhabited did. He let his empty glass drop on the bed and pressed his palms against his eyes, a feeling reminiscent of a headache looming somewhere inside his skull.

”Alright. I believe you,” he said, slightly muffled. ”And I do still trust you.”

It was true; Natasha had never, to his knowledge, lied to him except now that it had been necessary for the mission. She had only been doing her job, and she couldn’t place a personal relationship above her work. She kept her word to Fury, and Steve respected that. It was up to him to learn to deal with the dynamics of this particular kind of teamwork.

Thinking like this probably meant he was beginning to share Fury’s worldview, but at least it helped make sense of things.

Natasha let out a sound of surprise. ”Based on what I just told you, I would advise you not to.”

”I do.” Steve looked up. ”Where it counts.”

He picked his glass up from the bed. ”Another?”

Natasha smiled and uncorked the bottle.


End file.
